


The Storm series

by Barb G (troutkitty)



Series: The Hand series [3]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-08-15
Updated: 1998-08-15
Packaged: 2017-10-24 14:38:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 32,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troutkitty/pseuds/Barb%20G
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Methostorture story. Methos' treatment makes him remember things he only wants to forget. Not for the weak at heart, be warned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Calm Before the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I worship Ellen. She put a lot of work into this. And Olympia is a great god-parent and Chris added stuff. Thanks!
> 
> These are not my toys. I just like messing with their heads and other parts of their bodies. (Mostly the other parts of their bodies) They belong to Rysher and people. This story does get nasty, but not until the second part. Poor, poor Methos.)

Methos was angry about something -- as usual. Duncan hadn't seen him smile for at least a week, but couldn't determine anything about him but his mood. He stood and fought his way to the bar to order another couple beers, then fought his way back to the table. Putting the beers down on the table, he frowned slightly when Methos didn't even bother to look up before swiping his. However, Duncan knew enough not to ask if something was wrong; he didn't want to be snapped at.

"Do you want to dance?" he asked, suddenly.

The question seemed to startle Methos, who glanced up, annoyed. "No," he said, draining half the bottle.

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not in the mood. Because if you step on my toes, you'll break all of them, and I don't want to hobble around until they heal. Because right now, I am only half drunk, and I can't seem to get any drunker. Because--"

"You want to go home. Let's go," Mac said, grabbing his jacket. Methos finished his beer and stood up. Duncan saw the stumble before the old man fell and righted him. Methos pulled away from the touch and stormed off, weaving only slightly.

Mac sighed...it was going to be a long night.

The cold air outside seemed to help; Methos' eyes lost some of their anger. MacLeod put his arm around the thin shoulders and felt the angry nervousness moving through them. "Something's bothering you," he whispered soothingly.

"Nothing is bothering me," Methos said coldly, throwing off the arm.

Mac stopped walking. He was about to suggest different sleeping quarters to give Methos a chance to cool down when the bottle crashed at their feet. He jumped, reaching for his sword, but quickly realized that an irate Methos was the only other Immortal around.

"Goddamn fairies," called a severely inebriated voice. A man dressed in a plaid shirt and dirty jeans swaggered over to them from the alley.

Mac shook his head and pulled at Methos' arm. "Let's go," he said, under his breath.

Methos ignored him. "What did you say?" he asked, very quietly.

"I said: 'Goddamn fairies.' You queers don't belong...gak-" The tirade was cut off by Methos, who threw the drunk against the wall and pinned him there by his throat. Methos moved faster than Mac would have given him credit for. The man clawed at Methos' hand but couldn't fight it. His red face went white and then almost blue.

"Let him go," Mac said, pulling on Methos, who batted him away with his free hand. Mac stepped back. "You're killing him."

"Maybe he deserves to die," Methos spat out. The man's throat turned yellow where Methos' fingers dug in.

"This isn't like you," Mac tried one more time.

Methos just looked at him. "Any more," Mac amended. "Please. He's an ignorant bastard, but he's dying."

Methos glanced at the man he still held pinned to the wall and realized what he was doing. The drunk dropped to his knees after Methos let him go.

"I want to go home," Methos finally said tiredly. He looked more sober than he had before they stepped out of the bar but also more exhausted. Mac replaced his arm around Methos' shoulders and led him back to the barge.

Once inside, Methos stayed at the foot of the stairs while Mac put on some music. Returning to where Methos stood swaying slightly, Mac asked his question again. "Now...would you like to dance?"

There was so much anger in his posture; suddenly, Duncan knew that Methos wouldn't be staying. They had lived together harmoniously for almost three months, but now the old man was growing edgy and caustic.... Duncan didn't like the change but knew there was nothing he could do about it.

"You know, you are a hopeless romantic, MacLeod." Methos' voice was bitter, but he sighed and rested his head on Mac's shoulder. MacLeod put his arms around him and held him as tightly as he could. Methos was going to leave. It wasn't Mac's fault that their love wasn't enough to kill the old man's need.

"I think you should go away," Mac whispered quietly.

"What?" Methos demanded, pulling away. He looked too guilty. He *had* been thinking it.

"Go away. Have some time to yourself. I can live without you for a week or so."

"Mac, I..." Methos sounded flustered.

Mac kissed him on the forehead. "I know," he said quietly.

Methos looked up at him for a second, and then a heartbeat later, every inch of Methos' body was pressed up against him. Mac ran a hand up under Methos' sweater and traced each muscle group before working his way down to his jeans. "Let's go to bed," he whispered quietly.

Methos parted his lips. "Oh, I'm all for that," he whispered.

Mac saw the actual tremor pass through the beautiful body when Methos saw what waited for him. Methos jumped on the bed like a child and picked up the first of the shackles as if it were a new toy. "Oh, Mac, you shouldn't have. Are these all for me?" he asked, testing the strength of them.

"I had to do something to guarantee you'd come back to me," Mac said, pulling off his sweater. Methos glanced down and realized he still had clothing on and tugged his own off. Mac watched appreciatively as the muscles on Methos' back flexed with the stretch and the graceful line of his spine was exposed. After a moment of tugging, Methos managed to emerge from the sweater with his hair only slightly tousled. The grin was purely demonic, though.

Mac flipped Methos on his back. His grin died to a nervous smile as Mac locked his wrists in place. Methos tested them, but there was no way out of the cuffs. Not even Methos' long fingers could reach the release catch. The metal chains clanked together as Methos tugged at it again. A second later, his upper body was immobile. "How long have you been--" Methos began.

Mac pressed a finger against his lips. "Hush," he said gently. He sat down on the edge of the bed, picking up Methos' foot, running a hand down the line of his calf muscle before tickling behind the kneecap. Methos kicked out, but Mac wouldn't let it go. He brought Methos' foot up to his lips and kissed the ankle bone. Methos kicked out again, but this was just a spasm. Mac ran his tongue down the arch of the foot, slowly, before kissing the ball of the foot. He sat up, blowing on the wet line his tongue made. "Mac...for God's sake," Methos hissed.

In an almost businesslike manner, Mac slapped on the ankle shackle and simply yanked on the right foot until it was in the right position before locking it in place. Methos tried to sit up, but Mac pushed him down again. "Oh, no you don't," he said, straddling Methos' body. He bent over, kissing his way down the blue veins exposed clearly on the delicate skin of Methos' forearm. He used his tongue to tease the sensitive skin of the inside of Methos' elbow.

Mac pulled away for a second. Methos squeezed his eyes shut, and his eyelashes were wet with tears. The smile had become almost angelic. Mac pulled away and knelt down between Methos' thighs.

Methos opened his eyes at the shifting weight, but the only sound he made was a grunt as Mac kissed his testicles right at the base of his cock. He sucked in his belly as Mac moved up to the weeping tip and licked up the first of the drops. Methos' ribcage stood out sharply from the rest of his body, and Mac placed a hand over the heaving abdomen before running his tongue down the thick vein on the underside of Methos' cock, and then ever so lightly running his teeth from the base to the tip.

The chains clanked again as Methos jerked against them. Mac smiled, climbing to his hands and knees. He used his left index finger to roughly trace Methos' lips, once, twice, before parting them. "Open up," he whispered quietly.

Methos' controlled his gag reflex well as Duncan slid his finger down Methos' throat.

Mac couldn't control his own shudder as Methos' very talented tongue curled up around the finger. Mac had to pull away before he lost control as well. He sat back down, dipping his head down to kiss the line that attached Methos' body to the beginning of his thigh, and then nudged Methos' legs slightly further apart. He took the pre-moistened finger and pressed it up into Methos' opening. Methos groaned again but couldn't quite force his body further onto the finger maddeningly working on the ring of muscle.

Duncan pushed in slightly further, to the second knuckle, before all but withdrawing. "So hot," Mac whispered, and then suddenly thrust his entire finger inside Methos. Methos thrust his hips forward at the same time Mac took him in his mouth. Mac found Methos' prostate, massaging it from the inside as he swallowed Methos' length.

He hadn't actually expected that to cause Methos to lose control, but it did. Mac swallowed out of surprise and waited for Methos to stop shuddering before pulling away. He left Methos asleep in his shackles with a child-like expression of joy on his face and fixed himself a scotch while he waited for Methos to wake up again.

It was almost an hour before Methos began to stir; with the bed raised, Mac could see the first waking tremors. The old man went to stretch his shoulders and was stopped short by the chains. Still mostly asleep, Methos jerked against them, and the sound of metal woke him fully.

"Mac?" he called, trying to pull himself up as much as he could.

Mac put down the half-finished drink. "Yes?" he asked, returning to the foot of the bed. He enjoyed standing over Methos with the other man lying so exposed on his bed.

"Are you going to untie me?" Methos asked. It almost sounded as if Methos was really afraid he wouldn't. "Please?"

"Eventually," Mac promised. "Not just yet." The hour break had killed off some of the urgency, but seeing Methos tense in his chains made him hard again. He oiled his cock quickly, gathered up extra lubrication on two fingers, and thrust them inside Methos. Methos winced, and Mac stopped for a moment.

"Sorry...you surprised me," Methos said, and then stretched out as much as he could. "Please, continue."

It took a minute to unlock Methos' legs and adjust his body so Mac could fuck him more easily. And Methos didn't seem to mind having his knees pressed against his chest. For the first time, Mac was completely selfish in his fucking. Methos was nothing but a warm, accepting body for his thrusts. He squeezed his eyes shut and heard grunting. It was probably his, because Methos' sounds came from much higher in the throat.

Methos was so tight against him, and the heat around his cock was incredible. The sound of flesh on flesh, mixed with the sounds of the shackles and Methos' occasional involuntary gasps of pain/pleasure, was too much. Mac couldn't stop his last grunt and all but collapsed against Methos as he came The pressure had built so much in his balls that the release was almost painful. The next thing Mac was aware of was the feel of Methos' internal chuckle against his cock. "Unromantic as this is...my arms are starting to fall asleep," Methos said, and then moaned as Mac pulled out of him. MacLeod felt the exhaustion in his joints, but he pushed up to unlock Methos. He took off the right one first, but Methos rolled onto his side before could reach the other one. "Oh, leave it," the old man said.

It had a quick release button on it. "You could unlock yourself any time you want," Mac pointed out, running a hand down Methos' flank before letting it rest just above the hip bone.

"Just pretend," Methos whispered, already half asleep. Mac nested down behind him, and Methos pushed back against him just before he fell asleep. It was the last thing Mac remembered, too.

 

MacLeod woke up, jerking away as the first thing he saw was Methos, staring down at him. "You're awake, then," Methos drawled, smiling slightly. Mac reached up and touched the old man's cheek, running his finger down Methos' cheekbone. Methos was amused again. Good. His bad mood had lasted a long time.

"Would you like me to drive you to the airport?" Mac asked quietly.

"Is that your subtle way of asking where I'm going?" Methos asked, and his smile grew a little larger.

Mac dropped his hand to caress Methos' neck. Methos rubbed against it like a cat and closed his eyes for a minute. "If it worked..." Mac whispered.

"It didn't. But you can drop me off at the train station," Methos stayed still for the touch a moment longer and then stood up, stretching.

Mac had an irresistible urge to kiss the hip right in front of him, so he did. Methos put his hand on the top of his head for a second but then pulled away. "Any time in the next fifteen minutes or so," Methos said, wandering off.

Mac threw himself out of bed and got dressed. He saw the packed bag by the door and wondered when Methos had had time to pack it. Methos threw it in the back of the car and slid into the passenger side. Mac put the car in gear. He knew Methos would probably take it wrong, but he had to ask anyway. "Would you...call me and let me know you're all right?"

He heard Methos draw in a quick breath. Mac waited for the explosion, but nothing came from the other side of the car. "I'll...try," Methos said, eventually.

"Only try?" Mac asked. He tried not to feel hurt, knowing it was only Methos' nature, but it still stung. He heard Methos exhale.

"Okay. I will. Damn you, MacLeod, you are going to turn me into a housewife if it kills you, aren't you?"

"You know I love you."

A long silence. "Me, too. And I am coming back," Methos said.

Mac relaxed slightly. Methos opened the door before the car stopped and winged Mac with his bag as he pulled it over the seats. "See ya," Methos called, throwing the bag over his shoulder. Mac froze, stunned by the exit. Methos laughed. "Just kidding," he said, leaning back into the car. He almost had to crawl across the front seat, but he kissed Mac hard. He pressed his forehead against Mac's for a moment and then pulled away. "I won't be long," he whispered.

"Is that relative or absolute?" Mac asked. Methos was leaving him. It didn't help that he was coming back; the fact that he was leaving still hurt, and Mac didn't bother to hide it.

"Two weeks, maximum. I can't be away from you much longer than that."

Mac caught Methos' wrist. He felt the old man's pulse for a minute and then let him go. He wanted to say something about hunting Methos down if he didn't come back, but he didn't trust himself to make it sound teasing enough. Methos touched his chin for a second and went into the station. Mac waited until a parking attendant told him he had to leave the loading zone before putting the car in gear. Methos was gone.

 

Three days later, the phone rang as MacLeod was leaving. "Hello?"

"Hey, it's me," Methos' voice was scratchy. Mac could hear a crowd in the background. "I'm here, I'm safe, and I'm still coming home," he said.

"I--" Mac didn't know what to say. Suddenly he felt like a complete idiot and undeserving of Methos' love. "Thank you," he whispered, humbly.

"What was that?" Methos almost had to shout.

"I said...nothing. Look, I have to go to Seacouver for a couple days. I should be back by Tuesday."

"What?"

"I'll be home Tuesday," Duncan shouted.

"Why?"

"Small fire at the dojo."

"Really? Do you..."

"No, I won't be long."

"'Kay. I gotta go. Love ya."

"I love you," Mac said, and hung up.

 

It was raining in Seacouver while MacLeod went over the damage to the outside of the building. Other than the blackness on the brick from smoke damage, there was hardly anything wrong with it. It only took a morning to settle the insurance, but while he was in Seacouver, he attended a few sales.

The loft seemed empty with just him in it, and the bed was huge. But he didn't want to show how desperate he was for Methos, so he forced himself to stay the entire length of his intended stay. Even if he did return early, Methos wouldn't be back.

Still, when he let himself into the barge, he felt himself relax. Methos would be home soon. Not that the old man added anything special to the barge; except for the added clothing in his closet and the new desk, there was nothing to show that the old man even lived with him. MacLeod saw the lap-top on the desk and smiled for the first time. There was no way Methos would ever leave without it unless he was coming home. Mac started a fire and sat down on the sofa. He could wait.

 

Methos didn't miss MacLeod. At least, not exactly. Well, okay, he missed him. He missed looking up and seeing the concern in Duncan's eyes. He missed stretching out and bumping into Mac under the table. He wanted to be able to stroke some innocent part of Duncan's body and watch the blush start from the roots of his hair. He glanced down at his watch...but it was still only Sunday. He couldn't even call until Tuesday. Screw it. He'd been away for almost a week. Mac wanted him happy, even if it meant that Methos had to leave. He was about to gather up his stuff to go home when a young, haggard looking woman sat down at his table. She was pretty, if not exactly beautiful, with her medium-length black hair and her green eyes, but she looked tired. "I'm sorry, do you speak English?" she asked, flushing slightly.

"I do," he said, his warm thoughts of MacLeod making him benevolent.

"Would it be too much to ask if you can speak German as well?" she asked.

"Wasmoechten Sietun?" Methos asked.

She looked at him helplessly. "What do you want?" he asked again.

She gave over a sheet of paper. "What does this say?" she asked, smiling nervously. "It was on my car."

Methos glanced down at it. "Strafzettel," he looked up. "It's a parking ticket. Go down to the police station with 30 marcs, and they'll take care of it. It's no big deal."

"The police station?" She paled. "Look, Mister--"

"Pierson. Call me Adam," he said, offering his hand.

"Jennifer Reins." She shook his hand; her palm was warm and dry. "Mister Pierson, please. I don't want to be the stereotypical helpless female, but I don't understand a word of German and...." She scrunched up her face for a second. "Did that sound as pathetic as it did in my head?" she asked.

Methos laughed. "I'm afraid so," he said, gravely. She was cute, in a flustered kind of way, and she couldn't have been more than twenty five. Oh, well. It would be diverting.

She smiled and blushed more deeply, waiting for him to gather his things and follow her out to her car. It was quite large for a European model, and he was able to stretch out his legs.

It only took a few minutes to sort out the ticket, and the girl paid the fine.

"Thank you, Mr. Pierson. Can I buy you a drink?" she asked, leaning against her car.

Methos recognized the signals she was sending and shook his head. He knew MacLeod would never find out, and yet, he still wasn't interested. He thought he liked the change in himself. "No, thanks," he said.

She opened the door to her car. "No? Can I drop you off at your hotel?"

"Uh, no. I'll walk."

"Adam...wait, just a second," she started digging through her back-pack. "Just let me--"

He held out his hands. "You don't have to--" he tried to protest, and then he saw the gun -- and the silencer. At least it wasn't going to hurt his ears.


	2. The Calm Before the Storm

He came back gasping and then almost choked as he couldn't get any air into his lungs. He fought, but nothing worked. The panic of being confined, heightened by the plastic over his head, made taking in sensory information almost impossible, but he could feel the low hum made by a car traveling over pavement. He fought, but his wrists were taped behind his back, and his ankles were lashed together. He kicked out, already feeling his lungs shut down, as black turned to yellow, he realized he hadn't even opened his eyes yet. The plastic crackled as his head rolled to one side.

 

He woke up again, feeling the tape over his mouth. He fought against it desperately for an instant before realizing nothing covered his nose. He sucked back air, but it wasn't enough to make the dizzying headache go away.

"You're going to make yourself sick," the woman...Jennifer said. Methos looked up and blinked as the floodlight was turned on, blinding him to the rest of the room. The pain from the bright light racked his recently dead body, and it felt like he was being stabbed. He tried to groan, but the tape stopped it.

She moved to stand between him and the lights, but he refused to look up. She ran a hand down his cheek, and it slid against the sweat on his skin. No, he realized, it was condensation from the bag. "Play nice, Methos," she said lightly, then pinched his nose shut. Methos twisted, realizing for the first time that his wrists and ankles were duct-taped to the arms and legs of the chair which was probably bolted to the floor. He didn't realize until he'd almost blanked out that she knew his name. He had gone limp, getting ready to die again, when she released him.

He slumped forward as far as he could, but he couldn't suck back enough air to fight the nausea. He tried to calm down but couldn't stop his stomach from trying to empty itself. His body was racked between the two needs, and suddenly, the saliva in his mouth thickened. A moment later, his stomach heaved. The contents couldn't escape against the tape, and he began drowning. Coughing only made it worse, and it didn't take much for him to die again.

 

He felt the splash of cold water, and he woke a third time, sputtering for air. Only this time, once he managed to cough the water out of his lungs, nothing hindered his breathing. He relaxed against his bonds, letting the water drip from his nose. He didn't care; he could breathe. That simple pleasure was enough.

The slap was unpleasant, though. He blinked, looking up into the bright light. "Feeling better?" the woman asked him and then moved behind him. The skin on the back of his neck tightened and then crawled. Her fingers moved to his shoulders and worked over the length of his neck. "Tell me," she whispered.

"Or what, you'll kill me again? It's been done," he spat out, wincing as she found the soft spot behind his ear. She caressed him knowledgeably before breaking away.

"Not yet," she whispered. He heard a knife being taken from a sheath, and then he felt the cool touch of metal on his neck. Just a sliver, though.

"How do you know my name?" he asked, not moving. The knife scraped at him, and he felt the tiny hairs being shaved off. The knife point moved up and teased his earlobe, and when he didn't respond to it, stung him like an insect. He couldn't control the jerk of pain.

"We have a friend in common. He'll be around. Now...where is your boyfriend?" she whispered in his ear. The knife worked its way between the collar of his sweater and his skin. He shivered at the cold metal, bending as far away from the blade as possible. He heard an almost sighing sound, and the knife cut his clothing. Methos twisted his wrists, but that only pulled the small hairs on the back of his forearms. "Where are you going?" she asked, sliding the blade down, and his back was suddenly cold.

She pushed the sweater off his shoulders. Where it bunched up, he started to sweat. She brought the blade delicately across his shoulders, and the icy cold pain split his skin. The blood ran down, but it was a minor cut, and it stopped bleeding quickly. She ran her hand over the healed cut and walked around him, dabbing some of his own blood on his face. He yanked back and saw her smile. She rubbed her hands together and smeared the rest of his blood over his neck. She straddled his thighs, quickly turning the caress into a throttle. He twisted again, but she rode him easily, digging her thumbs into the soft spot under his jaw. Methos could feel the frantic beat of his pulse gradually slow down as she slowly crushed the cartilage and blocked the carotid artery. He died, again.

 

He woke up on a bed, exhausted. From the way his body felt, he had been asleep for a while. He stretched out and felt someone kiss his shoulder as a hand worked its way between his thighs and began stroking him through his jeans. He didn't have his sweater on, and he shivered against the man. "MacLeod," he groaned, moving his hand down his body and pressing it against the hand over his groin.

"Not quite, lover boy," the man behind Methos whispered before he squeezed Methos' cock, hard. Methos curled up as his body spasmed through the pain, and the bed creaked as whoever it was got up and walked around to where he was curled up. The man's hand roughly stroked Methos' hair as if he were a dog, then tightened in the longer part of it. Methos' head was brutally twisted up. "Remember me?"

Methos opened his eyes and saw the blond hair. The pain from his groin was dissipating, and he stretched out his legs. "I remember," he paused to breathe and then twisted his head to meet Canten's eyes. The hand pulled against his roots, but he ignored the pain. "Did you still want to dance?" he asked.

"Not any more, your neck is too valuable to others for me to take right now," Canten whispered. He pressed his hand against the same place the woman had as she'd choked Methos to death an hour before. Canten's hand was larger than the woman's, and Canten's fingers worked over the tendons of Methos' neck.

The door unlocked, and the woman stepped in. She threw the bag she carried to the floor. "You're late," Canten said, and the hand on Methos' throat tightened.

Methos hacked, clawing at the hand tightening over his breathing passage. Canten backhanded him so hard Methos wouldn't have been surprised if his neck had snapped. Black rings appeared, cutting off half his vision, and then slowly receded.

"I'm sorry. It took a while to find the film. He's asphyxiating, Bruce," she said, motioning at Methos with her chin.

Methos hacked again. "So, that's what a dying cat sounds like," Canten said, releasing him. Methos dropped back to the bed, holding his throat. It hurt to swallow, it hurt to breathe, it just hurt. Canten grabbed him and flipped him onto his back, pulling him to the edge of the bed. "Undo them," Canten whispered, running a hand up Methos' calf. "Now."

Methos turned his head. Canten's fingers dug into the calf muscle. Methos twitched, and the hand continued up his thigh. Methos half sat up as Canten grabbed his other knee and parted his legs viciously. The pain from his stretched groin muscles was short and stabbing. "Jen?" Canten asked.

She moved up behind Methos, cradling his head in her lap. "Just take them off," she whispered in his ear, teasing his nipples. He tensed as she ran her nails over the sensitive buds. No pain, yet, just its promise. "Methos...don't test him."

Methos cried out as Canten slammed his fist against Methos' inner thigh. He tried to push away from the woman, but she slammed him down and raped his mouth, shoving her tongue in his mouth. He gagged, but couldn't pull away. Methos coughed once when she let him go, and she let him pull half-way up before raking her nails across his left nipple. He whimpered, reaching for the fly of his jeans. The pain immediately stopped. "Very good, Methos," Jennifer whispered, going back to teasing his chest. Canten pulled away, letting him move his legs back to a normal position. He unzipped them, and Canten ripped them off. "Better, Methos. Much better." Canten pulled away but only to take off his clothing.

Jennifer moved away from him, climbing off the bed. She reached down for her bag and pulled out a Polaroid camera. Methos curled up on the bed, hugging his knees. "Oh, no, you don't. Smile for the camera, Methos. Don't be shy," Canten whispered. He grabbed Methos' ankles again, flipping him onto his back and pulling him to the edge of the bed. Methos didn't struggle until he felt Canten climbing over him. Then he fought, pushing away from the man over him. Instead of striking him, Canten grabbed the back of his neck, pulling him up off the bed and kissing him. Methos clamped his lips together, gritting his teeth. Canten pulled away, smiling slightly.

Then he backhanded him again. Methos refused to look at Canten and kept his lips sealed together. The second blow hit him in exactly the same place, and then his head snapped back with a blow to the other cheek. Methos' jaw ached, and he winced again as Canten pressed his head back, digging his fingers into the soft spot under Methos' jaw. "Would you like more?" Canten whispered in his ear.

Methos slowly parted his lips, and as Canten let go of the back of his neck, lowered himself back onto the bed. Canten moved over him, running his hand over Methos' forehead and down his cheek, briefly touching his . Methos involuntarily licked them to get rid of the dry feeling of Canten's skin, and Canten kissed him.

It was a brutal kiss, and Methos gagged again, moving his tongue away so that it wouldn't touch Canten's as it invaded his mouth. Canten laughed; Methos felt it, more than heard it. He pulled away, but not before Canten bit his bottom lip, hard. Methos swore as Canten's teeth cut into him, and when the man finally pulled away, Methos could see his blood running down Canten's chin.

Canten licked the blood up with obvious pleasure. "Sweet," he whispered and then caressed himself, running a hand down his own body. He was thinner than MacLeod, but taller. Blond fur covered his chest and lower belly, and his fist idly played with his half-hard erection. "Jen?" Canten asked, "The hammer?"

Jen put the camera aside for a minute and pulled out a claw hammer. Methos pulled away. "Open your mouth," Canten ordered.

Methos waited until Canten's fingers tightened on the blue plastic handle before obeying. Canten carefully placed the metal against the bottom row of Methos' teeth, and the clanking sound made Methos shudder. "If I feel your teeth once, old man, I'll knock out both of your front teeth and turn you into a better cocksucker. If you bite down on me, I'll knock them all out. Slowly, one by one. Nod if you understand me."

Methos nodded, choking as he swallowed without closing his mouth. Canten lifted the hammer, pressing the ball of it up against Methos' tongue. "You aren't going to bite, are you?"

Methos shook his head and swallowed hard once the hammer withdrew. "Good," Canten gripped the claw end and began masturbating the handle. Methos didn't like the glint in his eyes. "One more thing, old man. If you don't look like you're thrilled to be going down on me, I'll pull out your molars and make you swallow them. Agreed?"

"Agreed," Methos said and forced himself to smile. He had done worse, but Mac would never understand the pictures. But he wasn't going to give Canten any excuse to use the hammer. He had heard enough teeth shatter to know he never wanted it to happen to him.

Canten smiled gently back at Methos, then lewdly spread his legs. He played with the tight curls of hair on his lower belly, pulling them out and letting them snap back before motioning to Methos. "Come," he ordered, touching his cock again. "Show me what a good cocksucker you are, old man."

Methos climbed onto his hands and knees, crawling between Canten's thighs. Canten lifted Methos' chin up. "Kiss me," he whispered. "Is this what you do to MacLeod?" Canten asked, guiding Methos' head down to his belly. Methos pressed his lips against the flat belly, ignoring the erection poking him in the throat. "You aren't smiling, Methos. Show me what you do to MacLeod."

Methos forced his lips back. He grasped Canten's cock, slowly running his hand up and down the length. He lapped at it, timing his head bobbing to his tightening hand working the base. "Mac likes this," he whispered, feeling the response in the cock. "And this," he said, lowering his head further back so that he could swallow the length. He gathered up Canten's testicles, rolling the balls between his fingers.

Canten groaned, and Methos winced as the hands in his hair tightened. Canten fucked the back of his throat, and Methos controlled the reflex he had to pull away. He remembered to smile, even though the strain on his hair caused pain-tears in his eyes. Methos groaned harder, trying to get Canten to cum and spare himself the rape. He licked his finger, moving his fist faster over the wet cock, and worked his way down to the balls, then lower still to Canten's anus. He kissed it, lapping around the muscle ring. "Mac loves this," he lied, jerking Canten faster. Canten threw his head back, sucking in air. Methos worked his finger into the tight opening and felt the immediate response. He parted his lips, feeling Canten tighten his muscles and thrust his hips out.

"Enough," Canten groaned, pushing him away but not too far. He took over pumping his own cock and threw Methos on his back, pinning him down with his knees. Canten's hand flew up and down furiously, and then he groaned, once. The first squirt caught Methos on his lips, the second on the eyebrow. The third landed on his chin. Methos wiped the cum off his eye and lay back down. Canten moved over him, feeding him the softening cock. Methos took it and cleaned it, then closed his eyes as Canten got off of him. He turned his head, and felt something poke him. Methos half-sat up, glancing down at the dozen photographs. Canten's face was the only thing not shown. The last of the photos developed as he watched, and Methos blushed as he saw the cum on his face. Mac would never, ever understand. He turned his head.

Canten pulled on his jeans, picking up a couple of the top photos. "This is a nice one of you, Methos," the man said, "Here, now. You aren't smiling in this one. Or this one," Canten said, throwing them down. Jennifer picked up the hammer, moving towards him. Methos slowly pulled up his legs under him as Jen began smacking the handle against her palm. Methos winced at every slap.

"Would you like to keep your teeth?" Jen asked, draping her arm over his shoulder. He could smell her excitement and feel her sweat against his clammy skin. Her breath was hot against his cheek as she rubbed the handle of the hammer against his collarbone.

"What did you have in mind?" he asked, and then looked up at Canten.

Canten just smiled at him. "This is between the two of you, old man, I'm finished," he said, rubbing in the already drying semen on Methos' chin.

Methos jerked away, but Canten let the insult go.

Jennifer pressed the blunt end of the hammer against Methos' lips. "Kiss it." He did so with a dry mouth. Duncan was probably bigger than the handle, but the end was slightly flared and flat.

Jennifer reached into her bag again. A tube of KY landed on his belly, and he stared at it. "What do I have to do?" he asked, letting his voice drop, Survival mode in gear. Humiliation was nothing if he could get back to MacLeod alive. He looked at the hammer. And intact. Sanity was asking too much. He had done this before. He had been played with, hurt, and broken -- and he had healed. He took three deep breaths to centre himself and then relaxed. He looked back to the woman and parted his lips in classic submissive behaviour. Anything to make her not want to hurt him quite so much.

She smiled and ran a hand down his thigh. "When we're done, I ride you," she whispered, moving the handle of the hammer back and forth over his lips. Canten moved behind him, rolling him over to his belly. Methos let his body go limp, knowing it was only thing he could do, but when he felt the woman pry apart his thighs, instinct won out, and he fought to get away from her heavy fingers. Canten's hand slammed against the back of his head and pressed his nose and mouth into the thick denim on Canten's hip. Methos' squirmed away, feeling Canten's half-woken erection rub against him.

Jennifer's fingers gently stroked his hip. "Relax," she whispered. She pressed the handle flatly against his anus, but his body wouldn't open up for it. He groaned, the sound muffled by the denim, and then Canten let his head up. He turned, panting in anticipation of the pain, then felt the handle turn. Jennifer placed her hand on the small of his back; he couldn't fight the thin edge from gaining entrance. She twisted the handle, screwing it inside him until the entire width fit into him. Canten shifted his weight so that his pelvis fit into Methos' shoulder and squeezed the back of his neck.

Methos groaned in pain, moving as far away as he could. He repositioned his head so that he could press his mouth against Canten's belly. "Please," he whispered.

Jennifer continued rotating the handle slowly, and he felt his muscles tear under the strain. He started bleeding, and the white hot pain shot through him as she slammed the unbending rod inside him. It tore further inside him, and he gasped in pain. Jennifer withdrew the handle until only the flared end remained inside, causing his ring of muscles to scream in agony, and then shoved it back in. There was nothing sexual about it; it was meant to hurt and humiliate. As she continued, he never knew how much she would withdraw it, but he could feel the cold metal press against his ass after every thrust.

Canten freed himself from Methos' grasp, watching as Jennifer continued to rape him with the hammer. "Take him," he whispered, his body twitching.

Methos almost groaned with relief as the hammer was finally pulled from him. Canten turned him over like a doll, but unfortunately for Jennifer's plans, Methos' wasn't the least bit hard. Jennifer saw this and reached to pick up the torture implement. It was still covered in KY, but now it had his blood on it as well, among other things. She tapped it on his inner thigh. "We had a deal, old man," she snapped.

"Wait...please," Methos whispered. In complete humiliation, he moved his hands down to gather himself up and squeezed his eyes shut. He could feel Canten watching him while holding his breath and could feel the motion of Canten's strokes on his own cock. He distanced himself from it, trying to remember what it felt like to have Duncan's hand over him, to have Mac's breath on the back of his neck whispering how much he was beloved. He could feel it work, but he couldn't call the results anything but shaky at best.

She didn't wait for anything better. Methos groaned as she slid onto him, hot and slippery. Her pelvis was bony, and it slammed against him, almost hard enough to hurt. Methos whimpered, throwing his head back. Canten kissed him, the frantic kiss of a lover rather than of dominance. But he wasn't the real object of Canten's lust, not any more, at least, and he was quickly abandoned. Canten dropped him and sat up, grabbing Jennifer's breast with his free hand and squeezing it, hard enough that Methos' felt the shudder through her body. Canten kissed her, and Methos could hear the clank of teeth. The pain set her off, though, and he almost cried out as her muscles clenched in orgasm. Canten finished, splashing her belly; before they let him sleep they made him lick it off.

 

Methos awoke, slowly realizing that the pillow he hugged was only a pillow and not MacLeod. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to recapture the dream, but it was too late. He moved his legs, and was immediately relieved that the only discomfort he felt was caused by his too-full bladder. The bed stank of the night before, but Methos had been through worse. He didn't remember getting into the bed, and the thought of his two tormentors tucking him in made him sick to the stomach.

"What kind of name is Methos?" Jennifer asked, standing over him.

Methos jolted out of his half-sleep and damned himself for relying strictly on his Immortal warning system. He sat up and saw his jeans on the floor at the foot of the bed. She saw him glance down to them and picked them up with her toe, tossing them on the bed. "Would you like them?" she asked, brushing out a wrinkle in the denim, and then folded them up carefully.

He looked at her but said nothing.

She smiled gently, ran a hand down his face, and then slapped him, hard. Methos moved his jaw carefully and rubbed his cheek. "First or last?" she asked conversationally.

Methos turned his head. "It's just a name. What do you want?" he asked.

She yanked off the blanket that covered him. He hadn't realized how much he had sweated until the cold air touched him. "What do you think, Methos?" she asked, sitting down next to him. He kept staring at the far wall as she ran a hand up his thigh to his pelvic bone. She ran her thumb along it, brushing against his cock almost distastefully before kissing his cheekbone.

Methos didn't care that his stubble probably scratched her. He flushed lightly as his body began responding to her touches without his permission. Her teeth lightly grazed his skin before pinching it between her teeth. He winced and pulled away.

"What do you want?" he asked again and stopped breathing as her hands moved to his nipples and rolled them between her fingers.

"What do you think?" she asked, purring. Her hands moved to his thighs and gently worked them apart. Her nails scraped his skin as he began to protest.

"I'd rather not get romantic with anything else you can purchase at a hardware store," he said, trying to ignore the fingers working over his testicles.

She laughed, barely making a sound. "How much would you rather not?" she asked, feeling him tremble.

Methos looked at her and then down at his treacherous body. "You already have what you need," he said. "You don't have to hurt me."

Jennifer leaned forward and kissed his left nipple lightly, "I don't have to," she agreed, and then bit him, hard enough that her teeth broke the skin. "I want to."

He sat up, unable to stop the scream, and then shuddered as her hand roughly worked over his cock. "Well," she whispered, letting out a low whistle. "I think you liked that."

Methos lay back down against the pillows, twisting in pain as she raked her nails against his healing flesh. He felt completely helpless and hated himself for it. A part of him--a small part, but a part he couldn't deny--was most comfortable when he was the plaything of someone else. It was comfortable. Duncan must have seen it, too. Why else would he want to play with the chains? "Please," he whispered.

"Please, what?" she asked.

"Don't hurt me," he whispered, lowering his eyes.

She didn't answer him. Jennifer bent forward again and then bit down, breaking the skin on his upper arm, and the pain shot through him. Her hand continued working him over. She sucked on the wound and then pulled back, wiping her mouth off with the back of her hand. Methos closed his eyes at the brief relief as she pulled off her belt and placed it next to him before shucking off her jeans. By the time she straddled him again, the only thing left from the bite mark on his arm was the blood than ran off and slowly soaked into the bed sheets. She smeared the blood over his shoulder and down his chest before licking her palm clean. He squeezed his eyes shut as she carefully lowered herself down onto him, and he heard her sigh. He threw his head back as the heat from her body made it impossible to disassociate from the pain.

The belt snaked around his neck, one end slid through the buckle. Methos clawed at it as it tightened but didn't push the woman off, partly because he suspected that the consequences would be worse than asphyxiation, but mostly because it felt too good. She pulled at the end of the belt while fucking him, and he felt himself come and die at the same time. He slipped away, aware of the incredible bliss from his body until the very end.

 

The first thing he noticed was the residual drugged feeling in his joints that he always experienced when he died getting fucked. The adrenaline in his blood hadn't dispersed back into his body, and the groan slipped past his teeth before he could stop it. He would have liked to sleep for a few more hours, but his erection was still rampant, and the need hadn't gone away with his death.

Jennifer looked up from filing her nails. She had taken the time while he had been dead to cinch the belt up on his throat. His body healed, and he couldn't prevent the jolts of incredible pleasure that shot through his groin as her hand moving against him again. "You are a slut," she said but kissed him. Methos tried to pull away, no longer caring about the consequences, but she grabbed hold of the belt and yanked it. He gasped, feeling the blood vessels burst in his neck, and then she let go. He loosened the noose with shaking fingers, panting.

"Did you have somewhere to go?" she asked, idly.

"No," Methos rasped. He'd do nothing to disturb that beautiful hand working him over. She wrapped the belt around her free hand and tightened slowly. He was covered in enough of her juices that her hand was slick against him, and if it hadn't been for the strangulation, he would have begged her for more. She bent forward and smiled at the pathetic sounds he couldn't prevent and wrapped the belt one more time around her hand. He could feel it pinch the skin of his neck, but his starved brain turned even that into pleasure. When he felt her lips touch just the tip of his cock, he couldn't hold back any more and died spasming in her mouth.

 

She didn't even wait for him to come back completely before working on him again. The first thing he was aware of was her mouth sucking on him. He tried to groan, but his throat wouldn't work. His body ached, but his abused brain couldn't differentiate between pleasure and pain and so registered everything as both. Jennifer looked up and saw that he was awake. She smiled, pulling on the belt while raking her teeth down him. Methos' shoulders came off the bed, but he didn't make a sound. The orgasm was dry, and it hurt as much as dry heaves. This time, Jennifer left him alive a bit longer, watching him writhe on the bed.

Methos came back slowly, hearing himself sobbing before he was even aware of his aching shoulders or wet face. He couldn't remember how many times he had died and come back; it blurred into a series of light and dark images. He curled up on his side, making himself as small as possible. He was aware of a thousand things at once, from the single drop of sweat sliding from his eyebrow into his eye socket to the deep ache coming from his groin. He wanted to die again so he could separate completely from the pain.

He wasn't alone. Canten lay behind him, stretched out along his body, his hand sliding lightly down up and down Methos' thigh. Methos licked cracked lips but didn't try to move away. He couldn't see much of the room except for his pillow and the wall, but he didn't look around to see if Jennifer was still in the room. His breathing calmed, but he couldn't stop his eyes from tearing. Canten noticed it as well and sat up long enough to pull a tissue from the box and gently dab at the tears. Holding the tissue under Methos' nose, he whispered "Blow."

Methos had no pride left. He blew his nose, and Canten clucked like a proud parent. "Don't worry, she's gone," Canten said and laid back down behind him. "It's just the two of us, now."

"What..." Methos managed, putting his head down on the pillow again.

"Who killed Lucullus, Methos?" Canten whispered in his ear. "Was it you? Did you take your old master?"

Canten's hand moved up his belly and teased his nipples. Methos groaned, burying his head into the pillow. "Did you?"

Methos shook his head, still buried in the pillow. Canten kissed the nape of his neck, running a tongue up the line of his spine to the base of his skull. "It was MacLeod, wasn't it?" Canten asked.

Methos didn't say anything. He didn't move or breathe. He only waited for the pain to start again. Canten laughed, and Methos felt a finger press into his anus. "Come on, Methos. If it wasn't you, and I don't think it was the woman, there is only one left. Tell me it was MacLeod, and I won't hurt you."

"You'd...anyway," Methos whispered.

"But not as much. And not so severely. Tell me about Lucullus, Methos. How did he come to have you?"

Methos didn't say anything. Canten scraped the delicate skin with his fingernails, and Methos shuddered. "Methos...tell me."

His body had recovered from the worst mistreatment, but he didn't want to go through it again. Methos turned his head and stared at the wall, thinking back. In the beginning, sex had been casual, the standard event after a huge meal, Methos lying stretched out beside Lucullus on one of the couches. Lucullus had been a great lover, and he had loved his little barbarian's energy. He had taught Methos much about delayed gratification and pleasure, and after Kronos' brutal fuckings, Lucullus' love-making had been unique.

Methos rolled over onto his back. It exposed his belly to Canten, but his body felt stiff from being in one spot for so long. Lucullus had been a big man, thick in the body and strong. He liked things around him that were delicate. Lucullus had surrounded himself with slaves who were lithe and graceful in their servitude -- not that Methos had been a slave to start with.

"What do you want to hear?" Methos asked quietly, deciding to simplify it to its most basic level. He didn't mention the voluntary decadence in which he had reveled before the challenge. "I took someone. When the quickening ended, I had a sword at my throat. Lucullus wanted me as a toy; I was his toy." He sighed. Kronos had been brutal, and he had usually enjoyed it as much as Kronos had. Lucullus had been sicker, more depraved, and even that was exciting. It made MacLeod's gentle attempts seem so pure and so innocent.

"Come, Methos, you can do better than that. Tell me what he did to you," Canten whispered. The hand began moving up and down his thigh again. Canten was excited. Methos moaned, hugging his body.

Methos closed his eyes. He remembered the Greek slaves Lucullus had liked best of all. They were so young, so physical. Lucullus oiled their bodies and let them wrestle at the foot of the couch. Lucullus wouldn't touch Methos until one of the slaves had pinned the other. Lucullus entered him at the same time as the dominant slave mounted the loser. Methos touched his hip as if he could still feeling Lucullus' fingers digging into his flesh. If he managed to hold off until after the slaves came he was rewarded; if he couldn't, he was punished. Methos shuddered. Either way, it was an unforgettable night.

And then, a stranger challenged him. When Methos was on his knees coming back from the last of the quickening, he felt the sword at his throat. Lucullus forced him down...Methos curled up on his side again. It hadn't surprised him. It made the relationship more interesting. And in the beginning, it had been fun. The first time Lucullus oiled his body and put him with the slave, Methos didn't win. Lucullus watched with narrowed eyes as Methos was fucked by the boy. Methos never forgot that humiliation, but it made winning the next match and feeling his cock up the ass of the tight slave under him even more sweet. Win or lose, Lucullus watched him.

Methos flinched away as Canten unzipped his jeans. He rested his chin on Methos' shoulder as he fumbled for a moment, applying lubricant to his fingers, and then Methos felt them slide inside him. He moaned and grabbed the pillow. He bit it until his jaw ached, feeling Canten's cock pressing into him. Canten reached down and pulled Methos' leg up and out of the way. Methos found himself wanting to be hurt, he wanted the ache. His body betrayed him enough with Jennifer; he didn't need another erection.

Canten kissed the back of his neck, licking up the salt on his skin. Methos felt the sweat build between him and the blanket as Canten began moving harder and faster into him. He disassociated from the rape, though, and was pleased by this. Canten seemed to notice his distance and began fucking him even harder, but even the added pain didn't reach him. Canten grunted, biting at his neck, then came and pulled out of him. Methos felt his body healing as the door slammed shut. He heard the lock slip.

Not that he cared. He closed his eyes and dreamed.

//Lucullus dripped the oil onto his chest. Methos stared at him, not believing that the hawk nose, or the cool grey eyes that could be so full of affection one instant and brutal the next, would be so clear in the dream. "You're dead," Methos said, pulling back.

Lucullus only smiled indulgently, working the oil onto his body. "I think you should spend more time in the sun, little bird," he said, touching Methos' nose. "You are far too pale."

"I...will, sir," he whispered. It was just a dream. He reached out and touched Lucullus' shoulder. Lucullus picked up his hand and kissed it before letting it go. His master was in a good mood, and suddenly, Methos realized that this pleased him.

Lucullus glanced up as the new slave came into the room. Unlike Methos, his skin was a healthier golden colour, and his cock was already hard. Methos stood still as Lucullus greased his passage. The slave shone. He was all ready for the match. "Win, Methos," Lucullus whispered, looking over his new purchase. The slave noticed that he was being observed and started preening. "Win, or you might lose your favoured status."

Methos' back knotted. He shared his master's bed, and no one was going to force him to the slave quarters. Lucullus stretched out on his couch, but not before he patted the new slave on the ass. Methos didn't wait for Lucullus to speak before attempting to pin the upstart. He was thrusting before he really gained access. He didn't have to force himself, though. As soon as the slave's back hit the ground, he stopped fighting and locked his ankles behind Methos' back.

 

Jennifer slapped him again. He came out of the dream groggy, and the third blow snapped his head back. He saw the knife but didn't recognize it as being a threat. His dream had left him with a hard-on, and she yanked off the blanket and mounted him. He knew he was being raped, but he didn't feel it and didn't care.

Until she stabbed him. The knife hit his shoulder blade and stuck, and she had to wrench it out of the bone. The pain was delayed, but it managed to find its way through the barrier he had erected. She stabbed him again, catching him in the soft flesh of the belly. He didn't scream, but that was only because he couldn't pull enough oxygen into his lungs to do so before new pain found him.

Methos turned off. It was just easier that way.


	3. Darkest Before Dawn

Duncan felt the warning and sat up in bed, but whoever it was approached the barge and then left again. "Methos?" he called, getting dressed. He grabbed his sword, but there was no one outside. "Methos?" he asked again.

Nothing, except the envelope. Mac bent down and picked it up, going back inside before breaking the seal. Methos...God, it was Methos. Mac sat down, crumpling the Polaroid in his hand. He was an idiot, expecting that he could keep the old man happy. He knew about Amanda. Methos had slept with her because he had been a bastard, but this seemed so calculated.

MacLeod stood up, throwing the half-dozen pictures on the floor, and went to Methos' desk. He had ripped the power cord from the back of the lap-top and picked it up to throw in the river when he saw the framed photo on the desk. He put down the computer and picked up the pewter frame. It was of Mac. Methos hated having his picture taken. He went back to where he'd thrown the photographs and actually looked at Methos. At Methos' eyes. Someone had forced Methos into the pictures. His eyes showed real pain. The relief Mac felt was brief and involuntary, considering the circumstances.

Methos needed him. He scanned the other pictures quickly, studying everything but Methos in his humiliation. On the fifth one, he found a reflection in the window of a neon sign. German. He'd buy a ticket at the airport.

 

 _Methos stepped into the bath. Lucullus watched him with his usual amused half-smile as Methos dipped the cloth into the warm water and approached his master. Methos felt a stream of water rush past him and then felt Lucullus' foot on his thigh, holding him away._

 _"Look at me," Lucullus said. His foot slid between Methos' thighs, and Methos unconsciously parted them slightly to make it easier. Lucullus' smile widened, and Methos tensed as toes pressed against his ass._

 _"Sir?" Methos asked, raising his eyes from the water. A year had past since Methos had submitted to Lucullus at sword point. He was comfortable with his role, now. Lucullus kept him happy and took care of his needs as much as Methos took care of his master's._

 _"Who do you belong to?" Lucullus asked, quietly._

 _"You," he said instantly. So, Lucullus wanted to test him. Methos forced his shoulders to relax slightly. Lucullus' tests always hurt, but they were over quickly, and then he had the man's trust again. A foot hooked behind Methos' thigh and pulled him closer._

 _Methos glanced down to the water again. It was murky enough that he couldn't see past the first couple of inches of Lucullus' white skin, but he saw Lucullus' arm move. They had sex in the bath quite regularly so he didn't realize that Lucullus' mood was different until the man's free hand broke from the water and lifted up Methos' chin. "Kneel down, little bird," he whispered._

 _Holding his chin up was the only thing that kept his face above water. The heat from the water made him sweat so that drops ran down his face, and the skin behind his ear began to prickle uncomfortably. Lucullus shifted his weight, and the slight waves were enough to crest over Methos' face. He sputtered, snorting out as much water as he could. "I want your mouth to please me, Methos. And I want you to realize that your life depends on how well you please me."_

 _Methos blinked. Lucullus' voice was too soft. All Methos could see was the roof of the bath house, but he wanted to see his master's eyes. "Yes, sir," he said, and Lucullus placed his hand on Methos' neck under the water. Lucullus had been in the bath for a while; his skin felt scaly. Methos took a couple of deep breaths and put his head under the water._

 _He found Lucullus' cock and almost drowned trying to take it his mouth. Water leaked into his ears as he shifted down to find a better angle from which to perform. More water went up his nose as he ran out of air, and he sputtered. The heat from the water made the heat prickles even worse, and he held out for as long as he could before trying to push away._

 _That was when Lucullus' hands, which had been guiding his head up and down, locked over him. Methos pushed up harder against them, thinking it was all a mistake, but Lucullus thrust himself further down Methos' throat._

 _Kronos had killed him before during sex. He had killed Kronos before during sex. But it seemed different then. It was just another way to violate the body of the other person. This was so deliberate. He thrashed around, feeling his lungs tighten in his chest. He knew there was nothing he could do to keep himself from drowning, but he held his breath for as long as possible, in hopes that Lucullus would decide to let him breath. The heat made the panic a dozen times worse, and his throat, lungs, and gut started to ache from the lack of air._

 _He couldn't hold his breath any longer. He gasped, and the heat from the water in his throat and lungs burned him as he died, coughing in a liquid environment. The last thing he felt was the floating sensation of his body rising unhindered to the surface, too late to do him any good..._

Methos woke up alone in the darkened room. His lungs hurt from what the dream had brought back, and he dragged his legs to the edge of the bed to sit up. His head spun from the clarity of the dream, and he pushed to his feet and staggered to the window. He stank, but he didn't register anything. His entire body felt numb; he couldn't clear his mind of enough static to even think. Not that he missed it.

As he watched, flakes of snow started falling. They looked as big as his palm and glowed in the light of the pink and blue neon sign at which he stared without seeing. His shoulders trembled as the nerves from his hair line to his shoulder blades went off. Despite the warning, he didn't turn around. His ears pricked as the lock on the door snapped open, and Canten entered the room.

"You shouldn't be out of bed," Canten said, turning on the light.

Methos flinched at the harsh artificial lights. Once his eyes adjusted to the brightness, he looked past Canten's shoulder to the hall behind him. Canten followed his eyes and laughed. "No, she's not coming. This is between the two of us," Canten said, locking the door from the inside. He put the key his slacks' pocket.

Methos' eyes followed the movement out of habit. Canten saw it and laughed condescendly. He pulled out the keyring and let it dangle from his fingers. "Do you want this?" he asked.

He crossed the room to where Methos stood, pressing into his space. "Do you really want to die, Methos?" Canten asked, running a hand through Methos' hair.

He turned away, expecting the pain, but instead, Canten kissed his shoulder. "Tell me. Could I take your head right now?"

Methos lowered his eyes. He kept his head slightly bowed, "Are you going to kill me?" he whispered, emotionless. It was only a scholarly question. Either way, it no longer mattered to him. He was too tired to care.

"Maybe."

"Do it, then." Methos turned away to stare out the window again.

Methos winced as Canten put a hand on his forehead and snapped his head back, but besides making it difficult to swallow, it didn't hurt.

"Brave words," Canten whispered, kissing his neck. "Do you mean it?"

Methos felt the teeth grazing his skin. "It doesn't matter," Methos whispered. The numbness was back.

"I think it does," Canten pulled away for a second.

"Kill me, or let me live...either way, MacLeod will find you. He'll take you," Methos said. Canten only laughed, but saying MacLeod's name out loud calmed Methos. It was the first time he had allowed himself to think about Duncan since the first night.

"I'm counting on it," Canten whispered, licking behind his ear. "And when he does, he will give up his head in exchange for your life. You know he will."

Methos felt the muscles in his face freeze. Then panic broke through the nothingness and he tried pulling back from where Canten held him to the window. "Take me. I'm the one who got Lucullus killed. He had..." Methos' plea ended when he saw Canten's reflection in the glass.

"No, not you," Canten said into his hair, moving against him, slapping his hips on Methos' ass. "No, you'll be free to walk away once he's dead. You'll have to live with it. Like I have."

Methos threw himself backwards, hoping that the suddenness would be enough to catch Canten off-guard, but it worked about as well as he thought it would. Canten knocked him forward again, holding him against the cold pane of glass as he fought to break free. The more he fought, the tighter he was pushed, but Methos didn't give up until exhaustion made him stop. He slumped forward, beaten and shuddering.

"Enough?" Canten asked, yanking on his belt loops. Methos winced and then grunted as Canten pushed his head against the window. Methos gritted his teeth, thinking for a moment that either the glass or his cheekbone was going to shatter, but then Canten slacked off.

Without being told, Methos undid his jeans and let them fall from his hips. Canten yanked them down to his ankles, and almost jerked him off his feet stepping out of them. "Hands on the glass," Canten ordered. Methos pressed his palms shoulder-width apart and splayed his fingers. He slammed himself against the window as Canten bit him on the thigh. The pain was liquid hot compared to the cold of the window. Blood ran from the tooth marks, and it heated his skin where it touched. His entire thigh burned.

"Spread 'em," Canten ordered, nudging Methos' other thigh with his knee.

Methos started to jerk away, but Canten slammed his head into the glass one more time. It was enough to daze him, and he adjusted himself quickly to avoid another one. He grunted again as Canten pulled his pelvic bone back. The snowflakes were smaller, but there were hundreds of them instead of the few singles he'd seen earlier. He watched them fall to the ground, reflecting the pink and blue neon lights.

Even not thinking about it hurt.

 

Methos woke up and squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to go back to sleep quickly. It didn't work. There was something bothering him, and it kept him from going back to the dreams that slid over him. He couldn't think of it right away, and then it broke through like an air bubble through oil.

MacLeod.

He couldn't just lay here and wait for the sword. If they caught him, and he was lucky, they might just kill him. He could hope, at least. He sat up, noticing he only had jeans on. He sat still long enough to push the numbness away from his body long enough to see if anything still hurt. He moved his neck carefully, but other than being slightly hungry, he was all right. He stood up, raking together the blankets to make it look like there was a sleeping body in the bed, before standing up on it and unscrewing the light bulb from the ceiling. The light from the window was enough to make it look like there was still a body in bed. Well, for the first few seconds, at least. He hid against the wall with the door and waited.

He felt Canten's approach almost an hour later. He stopped breathing and started sweating involuntarily. The night air was cold, and he physically relaxed his muscles to keep limber. The door opened, and Canten took an extra second flicking the light switch.

Methos slammed the door shut on his arm. He heard the bone break and the choked scream from the other side of the door. Methos opened it up a half foot and then threw his entire weight on the door again. Canten slipped down to the floor, holding his ruined arm to his body. Methos could see bone fragments sticking out. He jumped over Canten's body, avoiding Canten's good hand trying to grab him, and made it almost to the stairs before hearing the safety click off on a gun. His hand froze on the bar used to push open the door, but he didn't turn around. "Going somewhere?" Jen called.

He had hoped Canten had come alone, like the last time. He slowly put up his hands and turned around. "Back to the room, please, Methos. Don't make me shoot you out here. You'll only have to scrub the blood up yourself," she said quietly.

Methos came back up the hallway and saw the smile on Jennifer's face. She looked thrilled at his escape attempt. Canten forced his way up to his feet. Methos could hear the bones snapping themselves back into place. It looked painful. Canten waited until Methos was inside before carefully closing the door. It hurt keeping his chin up and back straight as he walked past them both, but he did it. "How did you live to be so old and so stupid at the same time, Methos?" Canten whispered and then locked the door behind them.

Jen shot him. Methos crumpled as the bullet tore through his side, and he held his hand over the wound. He didn't scream; he didn't have the air for it. He dropped to his knees and elbows and pressed his forehead against the floor. His blood poured through his fingers as his body tried to heal itself. He felt her walking over through the floor, and she pressed the gun barrel against his shoulders. She shot him again, through the shoulder bone. He spasmed as more of his blood spilled out of his body. The pain almost made him black out, and he would have welcomed it. She shot him again on the thigh, and a final time through the hand as he moved to cap the femoral artery. He passed out. Or died. He couldn't tell any more.

When he came back, Canten was holding him up against the wall. He let go when he felt Methos move, and Methos slipped down the wall until Canten caught him again. Methos turned his head as he was hauled back to his feet.

And then backhanded. Methos didn't fight as he was thrown onto the bed, and hewent limp as Canten knelt over his body. "That was... very stupid, Methos," Canten whispered. Methos worked his jaw as Canten took his forearm and ran his fingers between the two bones. "And that hurt. Would you like to know how much it hurt?"

Methos squeezed his eyes shut. "No," he whispered. He could hear nothing but his heartbeat. Canten slowly lowered himself over Methos' body and gathered up his other hand, holding them both over his head. Methos started to tremble as Canten kissed down his forehead, down his nose, and then stopped on his lips.

"Show me how much you don't," Canten whispered. "We gave you a chance, Methos. Now we have to do things the hard way."

"No," Methos whispered. He exhaled slowly and moved against Canten. "Please."

Canten kissed him, and Methos parted his lips. Canten bit his lip, raking his teeth against the sensitive skin on the inside. It was just the beginning. The worst part of the evening was the sound of his bones shattering. He could close his eyes and not see it; he could shut his mind and not feel it; but nothing he could do to himself turned off his ears to the sounds of his body being tortured.

 _Methos' first thought coming back was how much it hurt to vomit when his lungs were still starved for air. He expelled the swallowed bath water and whatever else had been in his stomach. He coughed, and then the smell of the contents of his stomach hit him. He lay on the edge of the bath shivering from the cold. His hair was still plastered against his skull. He couldn't have been out of the water that long. He half sat up on his elbows, coughing so hard his throat felt raw._

 _He hadn't expected the blow from behind. He fell forward, and his face pressed back into what he had coughed up. He went limp, letting Lucullus feel him giving up. "Get dressed, I have a surprise," Lucullus said._

 _He followed Lucullus to the garden. Methos stopped, feeling someone approach. Lucullus only smiled. "He's here."_

 _Methos jerked around, and saw the young man walk up the path. He was beautiful, or at least delicate. His cheeks were that of a woman, his hair golden and in curls. He moved like a woman as well; Methos' lip curled at the way the slave's hips swayed back and forth as he walked. He was just like the dozens of other blond slaves Lucullus searched for, only this time his master found one that was like them. Methos began to worry._

 _"What's that?" Methos demanded coldly._

 _Lucullus wasn't looking at him. The new slave might look like a girl, but as he approached, Methos saw his torso and arms. He had been trained as a wrestler, then. The muscles moved under his skin like a fine horse. "That depends on your performance today, little bird. Win and he is nothing to you. Lose and he is your replacement."_

 _Methos stopped. The idea that Lucullus had tired of him hadn't even occurred to him until he saw the new Immortal. He opened his mouth and then saw the way the boy looked at his master. Lucullus left Methos' side and lifted up the boy's chin, clucking to him as if he were really a horse. Methos knew that Lucullus did like his fair-haired slaves, but this was the first blond who could handle injury as well as Methos could._

 _He watched as Lucullus leaned forward and whispered something into the slave's ear. The boy laughed, moving closer to Lucullus' body. Lucullus stripped him and pushed him at Methos._

 _The boy didn't have Methos' reach , but he was very strong for his height, and Methos couldn't really get a hold on the boy. He almost pinned the slave twice, but each time, the boy slid out from under him and almost trapped him. Methos started to get angry, which made him sloppy. He finally lost his temper and took a swing at the slave, who simply stepped out of the way, grabbed his arm, and twisted it behind his back. Methos went down with a crash, the boy's body over him._

 _The boy's erection stabbed at him, and he grunted from the pain. But with one hand holding Methos' arm back, and the other around Methos' throat, he had nothing to guide himself in. Methos gritted his teeth as the cock finally entered him. The hand over his throat tightened as the fucking began, and Methos threw his head back to alleviate some of the pressure. He looked up and saw Lucullus watching him with his lips parted._

 _"I really hoped that you would win , little bird," Lucullus said._

 _The boy shuddered and got off him without Methos noticing it._

 _Lucullus motioned to the slave to follow, and Methos pushed to his feet. Lucullus stopped him with his upheld palm. "Not you. You're going to the slave quarters tonight."_

 _Methos stared at him. "What?" he asked, disbelieving. He tried to determine whether the betrayal hurt more than the insult, but couldn't do it. He stepped back, but Lucullus had already taken his new slave and gone up to bed._

 _Methos either had to run or fall as he was thrown into the slave quarter, and the door slammed shut behind him. He could hear the muttering around him, and he backed up against the wall. The biggest slave pushed himself up from the straw-covered floor. Methos studied the man. He could probably take the bastard, but not the three friends, watching the movement with interest, as well. They still lounged around the edge of the room, but the muscles of their thighs were tense, ready to jump up and help or to get a better piece of him. He'd have to fight them all off._

 _"You are a pretty little field boy, aren't you?" the farm hand asked. "The master's plowed you enough."_

 _Methos hadn't survived so long to be a slave's slave. He steadied his breathing and readied himself for the attack. The slave realized that Methos wasn't going to give up and bend over for him and motioned for his friends to stand up and move to Methos' flank. He glanced at all of them and pushed back into the wall._

 _"Don't fight. Don't make us hurt you, boy."_

 _They moved closer. Methos bolted for a break between the slaves, but one of them managed to grab him and throw him down. He fought, kicking out, and heard a grunt behind him as he caught someone's throat with his foot. He twisted onto his back, elbowing the man in the chest who was trying to grab his arms, but then one of them managed to catch him a head lock. He fought, but the man was too strong from field work. His arms tightened, and Methos went limp as his air was cut off._

 _He felt hands over his tunic, yanking it up and over his hips. "No!" he cried, but it was muffled by the sweaty man who held him. Someone kicked his legs apart, and he heard someone spitting._

 _"Stop it," a new voice said. Methos couldn't see who it was, but the hand pressing against the small of his back was removed. The arm around his neck let go as well, and Methos dropped to his knees as his legs buckled. He cradled his throat in his hands, not looking up at the man who had stopped the rape._

 _"We saw him first," the man who had held him complained. But his voice whined as if he had already given over control._

 _Methos didn't look up as the man standing next to him backed away from him. He didn't even glance up as the new slave reached down and grabbed his hair, pulling him to his feet. Methos grunted in pain, finding it very uncomfortable to be so exposed as he was lead away from his attackers. The man threw him down, and Methos hugged his knees to his chest. The slave was easily the biggest man he had ever seen. His face was pox-pitted, and his nose had been broken at least twice._

 _He rested his chin on his knees, ignoring the man in front of him. "Enough," the man said, simply. "I don't ask much. Do what I say, and no one has you but me. Yes?"_

 _Methos looked up. "Yes," he whispered._

 _The slave sat down, taking Methos' chin and guiding him up under his tunic. Methos closed his eyes, doing what he had to. "Slower," the man grunted. Methos obeyed._

 _The man's breathing quickened, and he grabbed the back of Methos' head, squeezing his skull. Methos didn't fight when the man forced him to lie down behind him. The man started snoring almost immediately, but it took Methos far longer to get to sleep._

 

 _In the morning, Methos woke up stiff. He sat up, pushing away the man who held him, and stood up, going to the barred door. He rattled on it until one of the guardsmen came to the other side. "Go back to your wall, boy. You're disturbing the other slaves."_

 _"I want to see Lucullus," Methos said flatly._

 _The man laughed. "You, a slave, demand to see the master?" he snapped._

 _Methos rattled the door again. "Tell him Methos wants to see him. I've had enough of this game."_

 _The man laughed again and poked him through the bars. "I'm afraid if you're down here the master has already grown tired of your..." the man's eyes strayed down Methos' body. "...charms. Get back to your spot, or I'll have you beaten."_

 _Methos grabbed the hand that poked him and reached through the bars himself to grab the man's tunic. He yanked back, slamming the guardsman's head into the bars. The man hit with a thud, and Methos held the stunned man on his feet by the throat._

 _"Did you hear me?" he whispered in the man's ear._

 _The guard fell back as Methos released him. He even stepped back as the door was unlocked and three other guards stormed in. The first man he had threatened whacked him over the head with something he didn't see. He fell, and that was all he remembered._

 

 _He woke up in chains in Lucullus' bed chamber. Methos sat up as much as the chains would allow. Lucullus watched him with an amused expression on his face. The other Immortal was under the blankets. Methos clenched his fists as he realized the other slave was in *his* place, between Lucullus' thighs, holding the master's cock in his mouth._

 _"Something the matter, little bird?" Lucullus asked, placing a familiar hand over the new slave's head through the covers._

 _"I want out. This no longer amuses me," Methos said, rattling his chains._

 _"You belong to me. You are not free to get out."_

 _"I don't belong to anyone," Methos snapped._

 _"Those chains tell me differently. What's wrong, Methos? Were you well done last night?"_

 _"Let me go. You have a new toy. I'm done here," Methos managed up to his knees. "Lucullus!"_

 _Lucullus threw the covers off. The slave whined from the sudden exposure. "Do you think this is a game, little bird? Do you think you were playing at being my possession?"_

 _Methos grunted as he was thrown down, and Lucullus stepped on his neck. He fell across the shackles, and they bit into his side as well. "Was I amusing you when I gave you back your head, still attached to your shoulders?"_

 _Methos started to tremble as more weight came down. "Was I?" Lucullus asked gently._

 _"No," Methos hissed. His spine popped as Lucullus leaned into him more. Methos looked up and saw the line of his master's thigh strain with the pressure. He bit back a cry. "No, sir," he managed._

 _Lucullus stepped away. "Good. You have too much spirit, Methos. And I don't like your lack of commitment. I'm sending you to the quarry to break you down a little. If you are ready to come back in a month, you'll be welcome to sleep on my floor. If not, you'll go back. You and the slave that took you last night. I don't want to disappoint him. Understood?"_

 _Methos' eyes narrowed, but he bowed his head. Lucullus was right. He was a possession. "Understood," he said very quietly. Very little hate slipped into his voice._

 _"And Methos? If you do die, I have told my quarry master I want your head sent to me as proof. Don't play with me."_

 _Methos moved his jaw, but didn't say anything. Lucullus stepped off him, and Methos took a few moments to straighten up. Lucullus lifted his chin and rotated Methos' head back and forth slowly. He tsked once and then released him and went back to the bed. He pulled the blond slave's mouth towards him, and the new boy eagerly went down on him. Methos watched, only because he was unable to look away from the look of bliss on Lucullus' face._

 _He was jealous. The thought made him angry at himself, but he couldn't deny it. He wouldn't place the emotion as high as love, but he needed Lucullus, and Lucullus had found someone new. He didn't fight the men who dragged him away._

 

 _The quarry slaves were coarse, thick, and ugly. Methos kept his eyes straight ahead and refused to look at any of them, but he could feel their eyes on him and their breath on the back of his neck. Men three times his body weight were broken by the life of breaking up and moving the rocks._

 _The first day was the worst. He wasn't as physically strong as the others, and when he faltered, the master was too quick with the whip. At least the lashes weren't so hard as to break the skin so no one could see how quickly he healed. It was only because cuts could become infected if they bled, but Methos was still grateful. Within seconds of being lashed, his back was covered with the fine white powder that was all over the quarry, and no one could see stripes fading from his skin._

 _One of the biggest slaves in the quarry moved next to him. Lucullus had sent the field hand with Methos, but this man was more muscular than even him. Methos flinched away, but the man came up behind him, rubbing against his ass. "Tonight you're mine," the man whispered in his ear._

 _Methos tried elbowing him back, but the slave only caught his arm and squeezed the nerve ending. Methos dropped to his knees, the pain was that intense, and the slave forced him down and over before he could recover._

 _The overseer and Methos' field hand arrived at the same time. Methos continued fighting to get away, and he could feel the shuddering from the whipping the body over him received. Eventually, the man got off him, sweating and cursing. Methos jumped to his feet, furious, but there was nothing he could do. The slave moved off with his field hand whispering threats, and Methos was left with the overseer._

 _The overseer's breath was short from the number of blows it had taken to get the slave off him, and Methos moved against the rock he had been trying to break up. He knew the brightness in the master's eyes. Methos turned his head as the master moved into his space, brushing off some of the quarry dust from his shoulder._

 _"Bed slave?" the man asked, and his voice was thick._

 _Methos didn't say anything. Around him the rest of the slaves worked and breathed and sweated, but none of them interfered with the man who had a whip. Even his field hand kept a respectful distance. He closed his eyes as the man turned his cheek with the coiled lash._

 _"I asked you a question," the master said and then struck Methos' cheek. The skin split, and Methos covered his mouth with his hand. It bled, but he managed to swallow most of the blood and hide how quickly he healed._

 _The overseer grabbed him, throwing him onto the rock. Methos didn't fight as his body was manipulated into a better position for being fucked, and he turned his head away as he was entered. He hated being fucked like a woman; he hated feeling someone else's breath on his cheek, hated the way he could see the distance in their eyes as they came closer and closer to coming inside him. He could have snapped the neck of the man raping him easily. He could have grabbed his pick and taken out most of the chest cavity before the next overseer could reach him. But they would kill him for it and take his head when he was down. He couldn't risk it. So, he sat and took it, burning inside with anger he couldn't display._

 _Methos squeezed his eyes shut as the man became more violent. He winced as the overseer bit his ear, feeling the teeth break his skin and the lips suck at the blood. Methos jerked away from the mouth, but he didn't move away from the hands holding his hips in place. It would be over soon. The overseer's breathing was nothing more than gasps, and those turned to whimpers as he pressed against Methos. He could feel the shudder, and then the man pulled away from him. Methos jumped to his feet and picked up the pick. He had turned away, ignoring his rapist, when he heard the whip slice through the air. It caught him over the shoulders, and he fell against the rock on which he had been raped. The breath whooshed out of his lungs, and he was still gasping for his breath when the second blow hit him. He wanted to cry out, wanted to make a sound against the injustice of it all, but he could hardly squeak in protest. He fell to his knees, unable to take the fourth blow standing up, and by the fifth, could only roll into a tight ball. Only then was he left alone._

 _The only thing that got him to his feet was the thought of being so exposed to the other slaves. He stood up, the pain from the lashes already diminished. Nothing could help the burn from his anus; the fine, powdery dust wouldn't let the irritation die down. As he moved, he could feel the semen trickle out from him, and the humiliation burned almost as much as the rest of him. He had never felt so humiliated. To be fucked by a flunky. He could imagine Lucullus and his new slave together and...he hated Lucullus._

 _The field hand kept close to him the rest of the day. Methos ignored him with near disdain but never strayed far from his protection. Most of the slaves in his section had seen the rape, and he could feel their hunger. He grunted as someone pushed him down from behind, fighting with elbows and feet, but it wasn't until the field hand came down with a fist that the body rolled off of him as dead weight. Methos jumped to his feet, angry he hadn't been strong enough, but the rest of the slaves were mindful of the field hand._

 _But they didn't put Methos with the rest of the slaves. He fought, twisting away from the hand that pulled him away. The overseer wrapped the lash around his throat and tightened it while another of Lucullus' minions stood back and watched. Methos dropped to his knees, almost blanking out before the master slacked off. He blinked past the blackness behind his eyes. "Submit," the man whispered, touching him behind his ear._

 _Methos closed his eyes. He nodded his head, tiredly. They took him back to where the overseers bedded down and had him. He closed his eyes and let them. He didn't know how long the rapes went on, but there seemed to be a time where there was always someone trying to get into his body, either in his mouth or between his thighs. He lost track of the number or the variations. Eventually, they finished with him and dumped him back with his field hand, who took advantage of his unresponsiveness to take the back of his throat. He finally fell asleep with the sky already lightening. His body, battered and bruised, shut down rather than actually falling asleep._

 _And so it continued. The days were back-breaking; the nights were spirit-breaking. The field hand kept the rest of the slaves out of reach in exchange for the back of his throat a few moments each night. Nothing could keep him out of the overseers' reach, though. He took what he was given, whether it was on his back or his belly or his hands and knees, and kept his mind off what was happening. He got better with it each night._

 _And then, the month was over, and he was returned, scrubbed, and presented to Lucullus on his knees. He stared straight ahead and didn't look up as Lucullus came into the room._

 _"Well, then. Learn anything?" Lucullus asked, lightly._

 _Methos nodded. He looked up, willing to lick Lucullus' palm like a camp dog begging for scraps if that was what it took, then he saw the other slave entering the room. Lucullus held out his hand, and the blond gracefully slid down beside Lucullus' body. Lucullus turned away from Methos for a minute to whisper something to the slave, who laughed and began nuzzling Lucullus' neck. Methos' back tightened, and his words of contrition died._

 _"Continue," Lucullus said, turning his attention back._

 _Methos opened his mouth to speak again, but then saw the slave looking at him with an amused turn to his lips. "Send him away," he said, instead. He'd rather face all those nights with the overseers again than say what he had to say in front of his replacement._

 _"I don't think so," Lucullus said and then smiled. He didn't look away from Methos, but the master's hand caressed the slave's nipples. After only a heartbeat, Lucullus' fingernails dug into the bud. The boy shuddered and responded by running a hand up Lucullus' thigh and under his tunic. Lucullus' smile widened. "He is better than you, Methos. He takes the pain and revels in it. You...only suffer it. I want more from you."_

 _Methos closed his eyes. "Or what?" he asked._

 _"You go back. I heard you were very popular, little bird. Would you like to be again?"_

 _Methos stood up and crossed the floor with his eyes lowered. He sat down on Lucullus' other side and began nuzzling Lucullus' neck as well. Lucullus basked in the combined attention for a moment before pushing Methos' head down. Methos dropped to his knees, and disdainfully removed the slave's hand from Lucullus' cock. He picked it up, rubbing it against his cheek once, and then bit down on it, hard._

 _Lucullus' cry of pain was half out of hurt and half out of anger. His fist came down over Methos' ear and it knocked him to the side. It was purely a reflex action, though. As Methos scrambled back, Lucullus curled up into a ball and hugged himself. The slave sitting on the bed looked at him stupidly for a moment. Methos stared back. Both were stunned at what Methos had just done. Then the boy screamed for help._

 _The shouts cleared Methos' head. Lucullus managed to sit up in time to see three of his men pulling away. "I'd rather be a plaything to scum," Methos managed to get out before one of the guards clamped a hand over his mouth._

 _Lucullus stood up and walked stiffly to where Methos was, and put his hand over Methos' neck. He squeezed for less than a second and then continued to hold him. "Still proud, little bird. After all the seed you've swallowed one way or another, I am impressed," Lucullus whispered. "Take him back to the quarry. Kill his precious field hand and let him fend for himself. When he begs to lick the soles of my boots, bring him back."_

 _Lucullus peeled the hand off of Methos' mouth and kissed him, brutally. "What do you say to that?" he whispered._

 _Methos spat in his face. The foamy spittle landed just below his eye, and Lucullus wiped it off carefully before backhanding him. "Enjoy him before sending him on," he told the men holding him up. "He's well-used but still very tight."_

MacLeod.

MacLeod was in the room. He didn't have to move his head from where it was protected under his arm or even open his eyes to know. He could feel him and recognize his breathing. MacLeod. God help him.

 

It was the same bar, and the snow was now falling heavily. The plane he had taken was one of the last ones to leave or arrive the airport. After two days on the phone, trying to find a bar with the same three letters as were in the picture, he started worrying that the bar was in Austria instead, but he finally found a bar with matching sign, four hours away by car. He tried not thinking about it. He tried not to imagine the hell Methos had been through in the past month. It didn't work. Methos had needed him, and he hadn't been there.

By the time he arrived, the wind had picked up, driving the snowflakes into his skin. They melted when they hit, and the wind brought tears to his eyes. He looked down to see his nails embedded in the palms of his hands, but the dull ache that had settled in his entire body didn't let the pain reach him. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. He had to enter the building, but his legs wouldn't work. He was paralyzed both by the fear he wouldn't find his lover and the fear that he would.

MacLeod glanced up at the sign again and then up to the building across from it. It was a run-down, six-story apartment/hotel. He studied the photo; it had been taken from at least the third or fourth floor. There was no easy way of doing this. If it was an Immortal who had Methos, he might as well knock on the door.

His head ached, the pain throbbing behind his eye, and his stomach knotted all over again as he stepped into the lobby. The night manager looked at him over his paper and then went back to what he was reading. "Still snowing?" he asked in English. He sounded American.

Duncan took a fifty-dollar bill from his wallet. The man glanced down at it then up at him. "What?"

"I'm looking for a friend of mine," Mac said, leaning against the desk.

The man put his hand over the bill, but MacLeod grabbed his wrist. "What does this friend look like?" the man asked.

"Let me see your register, and I'll tell you."

The man's hand withdrew. Duncan put another hundred down. He assumed that Methos' captor would have signed in under an alias, but it was all he had to go on. Still, the desk clerk hesitated. MacLeod shook his head sadly and went to pick up the money. It was snatched away, and a thick book shoved in his direction. The clerk went into the back room, leaving Mac with the book.

He flipped back to the days he was in Seacouver. Luckily, it was off season. There were only two rooms rented. One was a single night, the other room was still occupied. He took the stairs rather than wait for the elevator. Maybe the couple signed in had seen something. It was hard to mask a body to look anything else like a body.

On the third floor he felt it, that unmistakable sense of Immortal presences. He pulled out his katana and took the rest of the stairs two at a time.

Only half lights on the fourth floor were working. There were four doors on either side; the hall was deserted. He carefully walked down the hall with his katana at the ready, knowing they were in the last room. The door was resting on its frame, and he stared at it. His stomach twisted again, and the numbness returned, like a bucket of cold water tossed over his head. He took a breath and then kicked the door open. It swung freely and banged against the wall, and the stench of an unwashed body hit him from the hall. He stepped inside.

Methos lay shuddering on his belly on the bed, but the body fluids on him looked stale. His hands were chained to headboard, and Methos' beautiful neck was completely exposed as Methos tucked his face under his upper arm. His hair had grown slightly in his captivity, and his hair line on the nape of his neck was no longer perfectly straight. A sword rested just below the hair line. MacLeod looked up the blade to the blond man. Methos didn't respond as the sword was brought back and forth, as if the other Immortal had a violin bow instead of a weapon.

"Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod?" the man asked, keeping his voice pleasant, considering the circumstances.

"I am. Who are you?" Mac demanded. His fingers tightened against the hilt until the muscles of his arm screamed at him. He couldn't stop staring at delicate line of Methos' spine. So vulnerable. So delicate. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to think.

"Bruce Canten. You killed Lucullus."

"I did. And I'd do it again if he were here today. You want me, you have me. Let him go," Mac said, taking another step forward. He could focus on his sword. It was the one constant. He could fight. Canten's blood would not erase the insult to Methos' body, but it would allow him to look at Methos again and eventually not feel this stabbing guilt.

"I don't think so. Drop it, MacLeod. Drop it right now, or I'll kill him," Canten said conversationally. He reached down and caressed the back of Methos' head. It was so familiar a touch that Duncan couldn't control the sudden rage that replaced the numbness with white hot streaks of pain.

"Don't touch him again," Mac growled. The words sounded thick to him. He tried distancing himself; if the other man were to turn on him at that instant, he knew he wouldn't have a chance, he was that angry. He couldn't afford to close his eyes, but all he could see was Methos, shuddering in his handcuffs, his perfect body starved down to almost right angles. There was no sign of recognition at the sound of MacLeod's voice. Except for the deep muscle shudder, Methos didn't move.

"Or what, MacLeod? What will you do?" the man taunted and then pushed Methos' head down into the stinking mattress. He raised the sword for a second. "Drop it!"

"I'll take you when you're down," MacLeod snapped.

He heard a door open and close and then a gun cocking behind him. He hadn't considered that there might be another person, but they had registered as a couple. He damned himself but moved to the bed and let the katana drop from his fingers. "Don't hurt him any more."

"He's finished," the woman said behind him in disgust. She went to where Methos lay and raked her nails across his back. The skin split immediately, and the blood welled up and ran down the valleys between Methos' ribs. It took a long time for the skin to heal. "Done. Used up. Completely catatonic."

"Jennifer," the man spoke, and she pulled back like a trained dog.

"You promised me," she hissed. Her body shook as much as Methos' did - Mac glanced down at his hands; as much as his own did - at the thought of being denied her sport. All his rage, all his loathing, directed itself at her in that instant, and he could have easily snapped her neck. She noticed his anger and stepped back to him. Mac let her slap him across his face because he was afraid of what she would do to Methos if he stopped her. It stung, but it helped defuse the murderous rage into more controllable anger.

The man must have realized he was losing control of his pit-bull. "I did. Darling, I'm sorry. What do you want?" the man said soothingly.

She smiled, but it was an evil smile, and Mac's stomach crawled. It made it worse that it was a woman. "I want him to fuck his zombie boyfriend. Right here. In front of us both."

"Absolutely not," Mac snapped, and then he saw that the sick smile had spread to the man. "Please. You want me, you have me. Take me. Let him go."

"I have the both of you, you bastard. And you will die, just not yet. Play the game, and your boyfriend might walk out of here. Eventually. If he ever cares again about anything. Baste him well, MacLeod. It's going to be your last fuck, and his only chance to survive this. Perhaps Jen was...a bit hard on him. But he'll eventually shake it. If you let him live that long."

Methos hadn't moved since he entered the room. Mac stepped over the blade, kneeling down by Methos' side. "Whatever you want. Let me...wash him first," he whispered and then kissed Methos' unresponsive shoulder. He rested his head on his hands as if he were praying, but the only thoughts he had were bloody. Canten would die. It became almost a mantra.

"Try anything, and I will let Jennifer shoot you. When you come back, I'll let you watch her fucking him with a bread knife before taking his head. Then I'll take yours. Understand?"

"Understood," Mac whispered, keeping his eyes down. He could only hear his heartbeat. "The keys."

Canten let them drop into Mac's hand. He unlocked Methos and saw the deep purple groves on his wrists and the cold, bloodless look of Methos' hands. Methos didn't move from his position, but everyone in the room could hear him whimper as the blood began recirculating.

Mac picked up Methos carefully. Jennifer pressed the gun against his ear for a second before following him into the bathroom. The tub was filthy, and the room waslit by a single, naked light-bulb. He put Methos in the tub, plugged it, and turned on the taps.

Methos curled up in a tight ball. His eyes moved under his almost translucent eyelids. Mac ran his finger across the sharp cheekbones, now even more obvious, and down to the tender lips. Methos half-sighed, nostrils flaring, but for the first time, his face was calm. The constant twitching ended.

There was no shampoo in the bath, no soap. He used his own hands to scrub off the semen and blood. "Methos, I'm sorry," he whispered.

"Enough. Get this started," Jennifer hissed. She played with the safety of her gun, clicking it on and off again.

"I need a towel," Mac said, flatly. He went moment to moment. There was nothing else he could do. He was helpless...completely helpless.

"We don't got one. Get him out and back in the bed."

"I need a towel!" MacLeod howled. The words hurt his throat. "Now. I'll perform for you, but he's finished suffering."

She disappeared for a second. Less than that, actually, but while she was gone, Mac could swear he felt Methos squeeze his hand. It was so brief that he wasn't sure. It could have been a muscle spasm, but Methos' face was still calm.

Jen returned with a blanket. Mac bundled up Methos, bringing him back to the bedroom. "Give me your word that he'll walk away, Canten. Promise me that."

"No," Canten said. "But I will think about it. Hurt him, MacLeod."

Methos moved under him, briefly. Again, it could have been a muscle spasm, but it was against his cock. Jennifer clicked the safety on and off again, and she moved to the bed, pressing it against his jaw. "Fuck him, MacLeod," she said. She was breathing heavily.

Methos shivered as Mac removed the blanket from him. Mac moved over him and then stopped. "I need something," he said, keeping his eyes down.

"Oh, no. Fuck him dry. Let him feel the burn for a while after you're dead," Canten said from the window, but it was obvious that it wasn't his game. Mac licked his palm and worked himself with his eyes squeezed shut.

Methos was as malleable as a doll. Mac lifted his leg, moving him up and pressed himself against Methos' opening. "Forgive me," he whispered into Methos' hair and then pushed in an inch. Methos groaned, still as if he were deep asleep, but he felt Methos tighten up against him, slack off, and tighten again. MacLeod almost fell over the still, cold body under him.

"Hurt him, MacLeod. Damn it, do you want him to live?" Jennifer demanded. She clicked the safety off, pressing it into Methos' cheek. Mac pressed his head against Methos' and slammed his way inside the unresponsive body. Methos whined in pain, and his eyebrows twitched as he rocked his head back and forth on the pillow. His lips moved, but he didn't say anything. His fists clenched, and he pressed them against his chest.

Mac pulled Methos' hips back, fucking him solidly. Despite the lack of outward responses Methos gave off, he kept tightening his muscles against MacLeod. This was his lover under him. That was enough. He came, with none of the glowing warmth from before, but he might have saved Methos' life, and that was enough, too. He pulled away, kissing Methos' shoulder again.

No one said anything as Mac pulled up his jeans. Methos was curled back into his ball, but Mac's rage was gone. It was an artificial calm, Mac knew that, but he moved to the centre of the room and knelt down, bowing his head. Canten didn't move from his window sill. He ignored Mac's submission and watched Jennifer moving to Methos. She yanked his head back, kissing him deeply while pressing the gun against the soft part of Methos' jaw. The safety clicked on, off, on. Canten straightened up, losing interest in the show when the gun clicked again.

MacLeod watched as Canten held his sword out, but the gunshot startled them both. Both their heads snapped back in time to watch Methos push the dead body off him with his shoulder, grab the katana by the bed, and draw bead on Canten, all at the same time. He fired and caught Canten in the belly. The sword dropped from Canten's fingers. Methos went to where Canten knelt desperately trying to hold his body together, and the katana flashed.

Up to that moment, Mac had felt as if he were underwater. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't move, and there was an unnatural calmness to it all. Once the sword came down, that all exploded. Methos dropped to his knees before the first lightening bolt reached him. Naked, in the middle of a tiny hotel room, there was nothing to shield Methos. When the final tremor passed through Methos' body, Mac covered him with a blanket while he searched for clothing that would fit. He had to take his lover home where he belonged.


	4. Storm Damage

Methos didn't seem to mind the hand on his elbow, leading him into the cafe and into the booth farthest from the door. The cafe felt warm to Mac with just his sweater on, but Methos curled up in his booth seat, wrapped up in Mac's own long-coat. The bone-deep shivers seemed to shake his entire body. Mac wanted to wrap his arms around the man, hold him, soothe him, and press himself against the cold body until the tremors ended, but he ordered coffee, instead.

Methos winced as the waitress approached. MacLeod watched him flinch against the wall of the booth. MacLeod held out his hand to keep her from approaching. She looked over to Methos sadly and poured the coffee from a distance.

"End stage?" she asked, quietly.

The question surprised him. He looked at Methos, studying him. He did look like he was dying. MacLeod nodded, because it was easier, and she put her hand over his shoulder. "Courage," she whispered.

She backed away. Mac didn't look at Methos as he studiously poured a quarter of Methos' coffee into the ashtray and filled it up again with enough cream to change the colour to a light toffee and added three tablespoons of sugar. He pushed it over. "Drink."

* * *

Methos' bony hands grasped the cup, and the smoothness of the mug seemed strange to him. He blinked, as if waking up, but the restaurant remained a restaurant without changing back into the bedroom of that cheap rooming house. MacLeod stayed MacLeod. He was out. He held onto the mug so tightly he almost convinced himself that he could crush it like an eggshell. He drank from it, grimaced, and put the cup down again. "Coffee," he announced, feeling slightly betrayed.

MacLeod looked surprised to hear him speak. Mac tried to take his hand, but Methos kept away from the contact. He cradled the cup again, swirling the liquid.

MacLeod's attempt to smile failed. "What did you think it would be?" he asked. The false level of ribbing sounded raw to Methos. He looked up and saw the pain in MacLeod's eyes. It had happened again, and there was nothing MacLeod could have done to protect him.

"Beer," he said, pushing the sweet, milky thing away from him. "Cold. Austrian. Now."

"Methos--" MacLeod began.

Methos just looked at him. "Now, MacLeod," he repeated. MacLeod looked away first and called over the waitress. He ordered them both lamb stew and asked for Methos' beer. Methos didn't flinch away this time, but he did pull away from the table as she stood over him. He could smell her from where he sat, a warm, coppery scent, and he wondered how long it would take before that smell didn't cause him to sweat. She brought him a bottle and then retreated again. Methos swallowed most of it. It was icy cold, but as it splashed against his stomach lining, the alcohol warmed him. His hands relaxed against his thighs, and his back unknotted slightly. That much alcohol on an empty stomach made his head light, but at least he stopped shivering.

MacLeod must have noticed the difference, because he ordered another bottle.

"What happened?" Methos finally asked, sitting back without sprawling. He didn't think he could ever expose his body like that and feel comfortable again. He tried relaxing, but his gut tightened up, and his mouth went dry. Crossing his arms over his chest helped a little. It was too soon.

"You don't remember?" MacLeod asked delicately.

Methos waved off the question. He remembered...most of it. He remembered how much effort it had taken for him to convince them he had given up. To roll over and let that woman do what she wanted and not escape to the hidden parts in his mind because it was too far for him to crawl back from. He stretched his neck, wincing as the joints cracked, and finished the last of his first beer. He remembered the Quickening. The sick, dizzying thrill of the pleasure Canten had gotten from his body numbed him, then made him sick to his stomach and achingly hard, all at the same time. Having both memories of the rape and the rapist in his head were too much. He shook his head to clear it and grabbed the second bottle. MacLeod's eyebrow twitched in concern, but Methos ignored them. He remembered how satisfying it had felt to hold the heavy gun in his hand and how good it had felt to have Canten kneel in front of him.

The car ride to the diner had been a blur of passing car lights, and the coffee cup was the first solid memory he'd had since. There were no memories of Jennifer. Just the remembered scratch on his shoulder when MacLeod found him.

"Just the last bit. Is she..." he faltered and rubbed his face to take more time to find the words. His hand was chilled from the beer as he ran it over his face then he pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn't want to think of Jennifer.

"You shot them both. She died on the bed; you shot Canten in the belly and took his head," MacLeod said flatly. Methos glanced up at him, wondering who MacLeod was trying to convince more.

Oh, yes. He almost smiled; Jennifer's face had been shocked as he snapped out of the catatonic state and wrestled the gun from her. She had died astonished. He looked up, and MacLeod's brown eyes had dark rings under them. He reached up and stroked one of ringscarefully.

"You found me," he whispered. MacLeod took his hand and pressed his lips against the palm. Methos sighed, closing his eyes as MacLeod turned it over and individually kissed each one of Methos' knuckles. MacLeod's lips were so soft, and Methos was drunk, warm, and safe for the first time in weeks.

He put his head down, and a second later, MacLeod moved around the booth and held him close. Mac didn't say anything, but there was nothing Methos wanted to hear except his calming heartbeat.

The food came, and Methos looked up without Mac removing his arm from his shoulders. The woman smiled at him. He stared back blankly, but felt safe enough to look at her. She clucked like a mothering hen and left them along. The food steamed on the plate, but he turned away from it, not hungry.

"Eat for me, Methos, please," MacLeod whispered, taking Methos' fork. Methos turned to the rough hand stroking his hair and took the fork away.

MacLeod stroked his back while he ate, slipping his hand under the oversized sweater and working over his muscles while Methos ate. It was just positive reinforcement, but it still felt nice. Methos hadn't felt nice in a very long time. He put down the fork, noticing the third bottle waiting for him. He stood up, and MacLeod looked up, but didn't try to stop him.

"Bathroom," he said, rubbing his head. MacLeod frowned slightly, asking permission to come with him. Methos only nodded, but didn't show how much the simple gesture meant to him. "Yes, please," he said.

MacLeod walked him to the brightly-lit washroom and checked out each of the stalls before letting him enter one of them, then Methos heard MacLeod leave the room. He rested his head in his hands for a moment, leaning against the wall. He took a breath, enjoying the way his body felt without any pain. He pressed his head against the mirror after he finished and stepped back, staring at his reflection.

At least now he knew MacLeod loved him for himself and not for his body. He ran a finger down his cheekbones and winced at how sharp they were. His hands, too, were barely more than the bones themselves. He turned on the taps to wash his hands and felt how scummy his mouth was. He tried to scrub his teeth with just his fingers, but the bad taste wouldn't leave him.

He spat the water out as MacLeod entered the washroom. He turned around quickly, not wanting his back exposed, and saw Mac standing hesitantly by the door. As much as he wanted to comfort the man, he couldn't breathe, and his heartbeat still raced. He put a hand over his chest, feeling the thumping through the sweater MacLeod had given him.

"I thought I told you to wait outside," Methos said, but he could feel his heartbeat slow just because of the other man's presence in the room.

"No, you didn't," MacLeod said, but didn't step any closer. Methos suddenly wanted him to. It was an ache that made his shoulders hurt, but Methos didn't know exactly how to phrase it. He went back to staring at himself in the mirror.

"I meant to," he said, deliberately not looking at MacLeod in the reflection. MacLeod moved up behind him and kissed his shoulder. Methos leaned back against him, still not looking at him, but MacLeod obviously didn't care. Methos closed his eyes, wanting to feel MacLeod press against him. MacLeod kissed his neck without holding him.

"I don't think you did," MacLeod whispered.

Perhaps he didn't. Methos took MacLeod's hands from where they rested and wrapped them around him. He felt MacLeod's intake of breath when he touched Methos' ribs.

"Let's break for the night," Mac whispered, kissing his neck one more time. He took Methos' hand and led him back like a child to the car. Methos hugged himself as MacLeod drove them to a nice hotel. Methos watched the passing cars and cracked his window open so that the cold air hit his face. Anything to keep from sleeping again.

Methos didn't care which hotel they stopped at, but it seemed a long time before Mac found one for him. Methos moved through the reception area in a haze, only moving where MacLeod guided him. The fog was back, making everything distant and cold, and he didn't have any strength to fight it.

He dozed off on the bed, but woke up to the sound of water running. He panicked from waking up alone in the room, even though he knew Mac was nearby. Suddenly, that was too far away. MacLeod didn't look too surprised to see Methos press into the bathroom with him. He put down the toilet seat and sat down to watch MacLeod pour some bath salts into the water. "Get undressed," MacLeod whispered. "I'll get you something to drink."

Methos pulled off the sweater and the jeans. The bath had a natural recline on the back, and he could sink down into it until the water lapped at his chin. His knees broke the surface, and he didn't glance up [er1]as MacLeod returned with a beer.

He reached out to take it, and MacLeod knelt down beside the tub. MacLeod didn't talk to him. Half the time Methos didn't even look at him, but that didn't seem to bother MacLeod. They just stayed together, and Methos found himself breathing in sync with MacLeod.

Finally Methos sighed and pushed up, hugging his legs to his chest. His suddenly exposed back was covered in goosebumps as the air touched it, but he ignored it. They stared at each other. "Do you want to hear about it?" Methos asked, finally. He had been dreading this.

"No," MacLeod said, quietly.

"Why not?" Methos asked, looking at him.

"You're not ready to tell me yet."

"How do you know that?" Methos asked, closing his eyes. A drop of sweat ran down his forehead and hovered over his eyebrow before dropping onto his cheek. He picked it up with his finger and stared at the single drop rather than at MacLeod.

"Because you had to ask," MacLeod said and kissed him. Methos pulled away and dunked his head under the water. He couldn't stay down too long...too many memories. He broke surface again, reaching for the shampoo. MacLeod took it from him and slowly massaged it into his scalp.

Methos closed his eyes and sighed, stretching out his neck as much as he could. His body was healed, warm, and safe with the Highlander in the bathroom, and he found he could sleep without having to withdraw from the physical world in case an attack came in the night.

 

//The pain found him again. The multitude of hands held him open, and laughter mocked him whenever he tried to crawl away. There was no escape. Not physically, not mentally. He would wake up each morning after the assaults and stick to the stone floor from all the semen covering him. He hated vomiting because it made him taste the cum twice. He couldn't keep himself clean, and the bodily fluids that leaked out of him during his attacks attracted vermin he couldn't fight off. His body robbed him of his energy because it could not heal itself during the ripping attacks, in order to stop his own body from poisoning itself with its own filth.

He never asked to see Lucullus, and Lucullus never came down to see him. He knew this was his punishment, but whenever the door opened up, he still looked up, hoping to see Lucullus waiting to take him upstairs and tell him the attacks were over. Lucullus never came.

Even his stubborn streak, that kept him from bowing down when forced, began to wish for it. This was intolerable; something had to give. He'd lick Lucullus' open palm if he had to, to make the rapes stop.

But still Lucullus didn't come. And eventually Methos stopped expecting him.

Something did give, but it wasn't his body. Eventually the guards tired of manipulating him into strange positions and ran out of new things to stick inside him. At some point, the attacks were restricted to just the night, which finally gave his body time enough to heal from them. And then, even the nights slowed down, until it was just one or two men who came in the middle of the night. It usually was pitch dark, but one of the two would talk to him before the rape and hold him afterwards. Methos didn't want it, but he didn't push away, either. He never saw the face, but his voice was that of a younger man, no older than twenty or so, and terrified of getting caught in any act of kindness.

When the second man grew tired of him, Lucullus sent him back to the quarry. Methos never saw him. The boy went with him, though. Methos only looked at him blankly and shied away from any touch.//

MacLeod gently shook him awake. "Methos, wake up," MacLeod whispered. Methos opened his eyes, feeling how sweaty he was. He sat up, and the air touched his skin and chilled him. He got out of bed, blindly moving to the window, and collapsed on the arm of the sofa beside it. MacLeod was only a second behind him, carrying one of the hotel robes.

Methos didn't move as MacLeod threw it around his shoulders, but he was glad for the extra warmth. He huddled down deeper into it for a moment before gathering up his pride. "Did I scream?" he asked, needing to know.

"No," MacLeod said quietly. He rubbed Methos' back through the robe like a small child. "It was more...moaning."

Methos nodded. He didn't add anything; MacLeod didn't ask. "Did you want to go back to bed, or go home?" MacLeod asked.

Methos looked at him. "Home," he whispered. It was a strange sounding word. "Yes. I'd like to go home."

*****

The plane's hum tried to lull Methos into sleep, but he wouldn't close his eyes. He kept ordering coffee, instead, and used the chemicals to keep awake. He didn't need any more dreams. MacLeod tried to stay awake beside him, but without Methos talking, he couldn't. A stewardess with a tired smile informed him that they would be arriving in twenty minutes and then regretfully took away his coffee-cup. Methos thanked her mechanically, then went on staring out the window.

The roads were streaks of light, and Paris was a glow in the night sky. It would be dawn soon. Already the eastern horizon glowed orange, and the stars had lost part of their brilliance. He shook off the melancholy and woke MacLeod up with a poke as they began their descent.

MacLeod stretched out as much as he could and then put an arm around Methos. Methos glanced at it for a second and decided to let it stay where it was. "Did you sleep any?" MacLeod asked.

"A little," Methos lied. It wouldn't do Mac any good to have one more thing to worry about. But then, not sleeping had never bothered MacLeod. It just never happened. He could remember night after night of MacLeod falling asleep against his back, snoring just loud enough to vibrate his chest slightly. That extra heat was so annoying in the summer and so welcomed in the winter. He shook his head, trying to shake the sleep out. MacLeod couldn't keep the nightmares away, not with his sword, not with his love. He was alone again, and didn't know if he would be able to handle it.

The barge was dark and cold when they returned to it. Methos went straight to bed; MacLeod started the heater and then joined him. Mac wrapped his arms around him, but Methos pushed away, and Mac let him go curl up on his side. He closed his eyes, but everytime he felt himself slide into sleep, he woke himself up. So, he got up and made himself some coffee. He actually took the time to brew it correctly, staring at it as the liquid went dripped down. He poured it in the carafe and carried it and a mug outside.

The air was cold. Too cold to be out in only the jeans and sweater he wore. But he wasn't going to die of the cold. He sat down, staring at the city lights, and sipped from the scalding liquid. It burned his tongue and throat, and the steam condensed on his face, making him feel even colder, but it felt good to actually feel something. It made him feel alive again. MacLeod's quickening came from below him, and even that, in the base of his skull, was welcoming. He sighed, hugging his body closer.

At least MacLeod would remember to bring his jacket.

He wasn't wrong. MacLeod threw the thick London Fog over his shoulders. Methos ignored him, suddenly glad MacLeod was there, but not wanting to say it. "I thought you might be cold," MacLeod said, and then turned to go.

"Don't," Methos said. He didn't look up. He wanted MacLeod to look at him and wrap his arms around him, wanted MacLeod to kiss behind his ear, to whisper things that would be utter meaningless the next morning...but most of all he wanted MacLeod not to leave him.

"Don't what?" MacLeod asked. His face was so concerned, so...helpless.

Methos couldn't say it. "Don't lock the door. I don't have my key," he said, staring at the lights reflecting in the water.

"I won't," MacLeod said, but he didn't move. Methos looked up to snap something, and then MacLeod moved beside him, sitting down. He pried the coffee mug from Methos' fingers and topped it off with coffee from the carafe. MacLeod took a sip before returning it to Methos' hands. "Not sleeping won't make them go away," he whispered.

"No, but it's a good place to start," Methos took a swallow and let it burn his throat. "You go back to sleep. I don't need you here."

MacLeod kissed him. "You don't have to need me," he whispered. "You're absolutely frozen. If you do want to freeze to death you'll let me know, won't you? I want to thaw you out as painlessly as possible."

Methos reached up and touched MacLeod's cheek. "I want to freeze to death[er2]."

MacLeod wrapped his arms around him tightly.

They sat there until late morning. Methos' body was beyond shivering, but with MacLeod as a block of heat behind him, he didn't notice. The sunrise was brilliant red, but the clouds to the west looked like snow was coming. Methos sighed, and it woke the man behind him. "I want to go inside," he said finally.

"You aren't quite dead yet," MacLeod said, pulling off his coat for a moment and kissing his shoulder. Methos flushed, and heat spread through him.

"Some other time," Methos said, standing up. MacLeod followed him and watched as Methos put another pot of coffee on. "You drank the whole thing?" he asked, amused.

"I had to. Your snores were putting me to sleep," Methos said and crossed the room back to the fireplace. He threw on three more logs, until the fire roared, and shrugged off his coat.

"They were supposed to," MacLeod said, leaning against the counter with a slight smile. "Aren't you the least bit tired?"

"Not at all. What's for breakfast?" Methos said, going through the fridge. On the deck he had fought off sleep, but once he started moving again, he felt like he didn't have to sleep anymore. It was invigorating.

MacLeod pushed him out of the kitchen. "You aren't fooling me. If you truly aren't going to sleep if you can help it, go sit down. Conserve your energy."

The flames from the fire roared, and the sweater Methos wore became almost too hot. He saw beads of sweat on MacLeod's brow as he worked over the stove, but Mac didn't complain, either. Methos

sat down and enjoyed the heat as much as he did the cold. The coffee finished, and MacLeod brought him another mug. "Scrambled eggs and bacon. It should be ready in a moment. I'll bring it to you."

Methos smiled thanks. He hugged the mug to his body and waited for the food. MacLeod brought a tray from the kitchen and knelt down in front of him. "What are you doing?" Methos demanded, backing up as far as he could on the couch.

"Your breakfast." MacLeod said with a straight face.

"MacLeod, don't. Please. Just let me eat in peace."

"Methos, trust me," MacLeod [er3]said, touching his cheek. Methos turned to it. Maybe...it wouldn't be such a bad thing. He settled down; the breakfast looked wonderful. Macpicked up a piece of bacon and took a bite, chewing it slowly. The man hadn't shaved yet, and his cheeks were stubbled. MacLeod moved up next to him and kissed him, and Methos could taste the smoky bacon. His stomach rumbled in protest, and he found himself licking Mac's teeth to get the last bit of flavour from them. MacLeod reached down and brought the bacon to Methos' lips. He hungrily devoured it, and then licked the grease from MacLeod's fingers. Mac almost seemed shocked, but then reached down and gathered a dollop of the scrambled eggs. MacLeod dropped it on his tongue, and Methos could taste the nuttiness from the butter. He chewed and swallowed, tasting the herbs and peppers.

"Good?" MacLeod asked in his ear. His other hand dropped into Methos' lap and began stroking him through his jeans. Methos' lip trembled; it had been so long since MacLeod had touched him like that.

"More," he groaned, not recognizing his own voice. MacLeod continued feeding him with one hand and stroking him with the other. The sweat on his skin made the individual fibres of his sweater prick his too-sensitive skin, but he couldn't stop to complain. He spread his legs as far as he could, but MacLeod wouldn't even try getting into his pants. He whimpered, unable to even beg. MacLeod's forefinger worked its way past his lips, and he greedily sucked on it, lifting his head so he could take it all the way into his mouth. MacLeod let him suckle on it for a moment before pulling away.

"No," Methos groaned, and then felt the hands on his zipper. MacLeod unzipped him, carefully, replacing his hand. Methos groaned again. Warm oil spilled over his skin, and the slightly rough skin on MacLeod's hand became gloriously slick and tight. Almond. He inhaled the rich scent deeply, and the flush spread across his cheeks, making him suddenly too warm. MacLeod noticed it a second later, and with one hand helped him take off his sweater. Mac's hand stopped on the head of his cock, and for a delirious moment, all Mac did was run his thumb over and under his foreskin. The air was still warm against his bare skin, and Methos moved his hands to MacLeod's shoulders, pulling him closer to his body.

MacLeod's lips found his nipple, and his slick hand went back to working his entire length. "Please, Mac. Oh, god, please," he whispered, surprised he could form such a complete thought. MacLeod's lips pleased him without teasing him, allowing him to come at his own pace. Methos hugged MacLeod's head to his body, all but folding himself over his lover, and felt a tremble cross his entire body. He was so close. His gut tightened enough to make breathing difficult, but he wasn't quite there. He sobbed in frustration.

"I love you," MacLeod whispered, and the touch of his breath on the tight skin of Methos' nipple was too much. Methos came, hard, not hearing the words he used. MacLeod held him tight until the very last tremor passed, and then loosened his grip without backing away.

"You're crying," MacLeod said, quietly. He reached up and gathered one of the tears from Methos' cheek and licked it off his finger. Methos watched distantly.

"Am I?" he asked. There really wasn't enough room for the both of them to lie on the couch, and he couldn't relax his stomach muscles quite enough to be comfortable. Besides...lying down he could feel sleep approach, and not even a mind-blowing orgasm could keep his dreams away. He sat up and rested his elbows on his knees, and cradled his head in his hands.

MacLeod left him alone for a second, then moved next to him. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing. Need coffee," Methos said and stood up. He did up his jeans, and went to the kitchen to pour himself another cup. He leaned against the island as MacLeod did the breakfast dishes, but didn't offer to help. The muscles on the Scot's neck were tight. Methos wasn't going to say anything, but he heard MacLeod sigh. "It's not your fault, MacLeod," he said, finally.

"I never said it was," MacLeod said, not looking at him.

"Hasn't stopped you from blaming yourself," Methos said, moving behind him. He rested his chin on MacLeod's shoulders. The man's sweater felt soft to his bare skin, and he closed his eyes. It was his turn to sigh. MacLeod turned at the sound of it, but was careful not to put his arms around him. They stood, chest to chest, but Methos refused to look him in the eye.

"I don't blame myself," MacLeod said, gently. He lifted Methos' chin, and Methos half turned away. "So you can just stop it."

"Stop what?" Methos demanded, suddenly afraid. Not of MacLeod, but of something being said out loud that shouldn't be. MacLeod kissed him delicately on the forehead, and then slipped his hands over Methos' back. Methos flushed at the touch and didn't complain as they slipped down to cup his buttocks. The fingers kneaded his flesh for a moment, before hugging him closer to his body.

"Worrying about me so much. The only person you have to care about right now is you, and you're distracting yourself over how I'll react. I'll love you no matter what."

"Is that what you think I'm doing?" Methos demanded, suddenly furious that MacLeod understood so much. He didn't want that security blanket ripped from his fingers. He couldn't handle MacLeod being so accepting. It made him think too much over what needed to be accepted.

"Methos, I know you are," MacLeod whispered. Methos pulled away, and MacLeod let him go.

"I don't want to talk about it," Methos said with finality. MacLeod, damn him, nodded and went back to doing the dishes.

The barge always had so much more space than it looked like from the outside, but it wasn't large enough for Methos to avoid MacLeod in. He would have liked to go for a walk, and even went so far putting on his coat and going to the door, but he stood at the base of the stairs until the panic attack let him move again. He meekly shrugged off his coat and left it where it lay. MacLeod watched the entire display from the couch, but didn't say anything.

"It's too cold out," Methos said. MacLeod nodded and went back to his newspaper.

By suppertime he was absolutely exhausted. MacLeod brought him another cup of coffee, but Methos refused it. His tortured bladder couldn't handle it any more. It stopped keeping him alert. He was every bit as edgy, only now he was tired as well.

"Hungry?" MacLeod finally asked.

"No," Methos said shortly. The caffeine stole his appetite as well.

"Do you mind if I eat then?"

"Why would I mind?" Methos demanded. He knew he was looking for a fight, but couldn't stop himself.

MacLeod refused to engage him. Methos moved to the kitchen and hoisted himself onto the counter while MacLeod prepared a simple pasta dish. The smell of it was wonderful, but his stomach still turned. He knew part of that was anger, but he couldn't help himself. MacLeod hummed to himself as he prepared the sauce, and after it simmered for a bit, he dipped his finger into the sauce and brought it to Methos' lips. "Taste this," he said.

"No," Methos said.

"Taste this," MacLeod said again, still patiently.

"I said, 'no,'" Methos snapped.

MacLeod shrugged, as if in defeat, and turned to back to his puttering. Before Methos could react MacLeod whipped around, smeared it on his lips, and jumped back. Methos opened his mouth to snap something and accidentally licked his lips.

It was delicious.

But that wasn't the point.

"Too much pepper," he said just to make MacLeod feel bad, and then jumped off the counter. He didn't want to retaliate using the sauce--it was too hot to play with, and it had already been done. Luckily, MacLeod already had the roasted garlic butter already at room temperature. He grabbed a fingerful and descended upon MacLeod.

"Too much pepper? Are you--" MacLeod turned to him, and Methos smeared the butter across his cheek and over his lips. MacLeod sputtered, backing up, and grabbed the only thing on his side of the counter--the wooden spoon for stirring the pasta. Methos grabbed the cucumber that was about to become part of the salad, and the sword fight was on.

Methos' weapon wasn't as good as MacLeod's, but Mac was very careful not to thrust too hard. The parries were fun, but it was almost impossible to feint with an English cucumber.

They fought to a standstill, or at least until the pasta finished cooking, and declared a temporary cease-fire while they ate on the kitchen floor. Methos scraped his piece of bread across MacLeod's cheek and popped it in his mouth. MacLeod grabbed his wrist and kissed it carefully. They fed each other with their fingers again, cursing until the sauce cooled down.

"Hold on," Methos said, eventually. His stomach felt bloated, but he didn't mind it. "You've got pasta sauce right here," he said, touching his chin.

MacLeod tried to lick it off and missed it completely. Methos pushed to his knees and crawled to where MacLeod was. "Right here," he said, and licked it off himself. "And here," he worked his tongue into the corner of MacLeod's mouth. "And here," he lapped at the other side. "And here, which amazes me. How did you get it on the tip of your nose?" he said and cleaned that off, too.

"I had help," MacLeod said dryly and pulled Methos' hips to him. Methos grinned and adjusted himself over MacLeod's thighs. Mac was almost as hard as he was. MacLeod took his chin, carefully, and kissed him again. Methos parted his lips, more than willing, but suddenly his forehead touched MacLeod's.

And MacLeod was laughing. Not at him, but still. Before he could get angry, MacLeod pressed a finger against his lips. "You're falling asleep on me," MacLeod whispered. "Let's go to bed and finish this in the morning."

Methos pulled away, suddenly afraid and unable to voice why. "Mac...I really don't want to," he whispered.

MacLeod let him go and pushed to his feet. "One more sleepless night, Methos, and you will be hearing and seeing things. Which would you prefer? Waking up from the nightmare, or living it?"

"You're not playing fair, MacLeod," Methos whispered, but he let himself be pulled to his feet. His body screamed for sleep, and he was too tired to argue any more. He took off his clothes on the way to the bed and curled up on his side in a tiny ball. MacLeod moved behind him, wrapping Methos' body up with his own, but said nothing. It wasn't enough to keep the rest of the memories from finding him.

//The dream started out innocently enough. Running, but not being chased. Flowers. He remembered seeing a butterfly. He was lucid enough to still feel MacLeod's arms around him, or at least to dream he did. For a moment he thought it would be enough.

It wasn't.

In his dream he tripped and fell, but he couldn't get up when he tried. The chains kept him down. He stared down at them, and the ugly, poorly forged metal looked like it had always been on his wrist.

And it always would.

Someone from behind kicked him down, and he tried to scream, but a thick cock was forced down his throat. He coughed, trying to gag at the same time, but it didn't help. He couldn't breathe--his nose ran too hard and then the first of the batterings began. He looked around, desperate for help, but could only see bodies of men. He was back at the quarry, then. Fine dust from the rocks covered the men around him, and through the occasional breaks in their bodies he could see the sun going down. It was going to be another long night. //

MacLeod shook him awake. Methos scrambled out of bed, tying himself up in the sheets. Being restrained made the panic worse, and he ripped himself free. He barely made it to the bathroom in time. The half-digested pasta poured out of him, and he vomited until he could feel his stomach walls collapsing on themselves. MacLeod waited for the last dry heave and then flushed the toilet for him and wiped his mouth. Methos looked up at MacLeod, knowing how pathetic he must look, but the man only squeezed his shoulders and helped him to the sofa.

Methos sat back, still not willing or able to sprawl. He saw MacLeod notice that, and saw how sad it made him. It made Methos' depression deeper. It became almost impossible to look up.

"That bad?" MacLeod asked, finally.

Methos could still taste the vomit in his mouth. MacLeod noticed it and went to the liquor cabinet.

MacLeod filled him a his glass, and returned to the sofa. For the longest moment, nothing was said. Methos sipped at his glass, which emptied it slowly. He swallowed the last little bit and looked up at MacLeod. He didn't want to do this. He didn't want to poison MacLeod. "Are you sure you want to hear this?" he asked.

"The only thing I don't want to do is feel you shuddering that hard again," MacLeod said quietly. Methos turned away as MacLeod stroked his cheek, and then he smiled bitterly.

"You asked for it," Methos said, cryptically. He didn't know where to start--MacLeod knew about Lucullus, knew about their relationship, but Methos hadn't told him anything about how it had ended. "Lucullus tired of me. I never did...like...to be hurt. It was something I made myself accept, but I never...enjoyed it," he began, and wondered if that was a lie. There was something so safe about being hurt; the pain took away his thoughts and left him with silence. He looked up, knowing Mac couldn't handle that, so he filed it away. "Lucullus found a new toy who did. There was no point to me anymore. I was too independent. Of course I was...it had been a game to me. Kronos and I played -- control, submission, domination -- it didn't matter. It was how the body reacted. It was...MacLeod, you wouldn't understand."

MacLeod kissed him. "Go on," he said.

He didn't need to say anything else. He didn't want to talk about Canten or Jennifer. Not yet. He didn't want to talk about it. That wasn't causing the nightmares.

Methos sighed. "He wanted to break me. I almost broke. He sent me to a rock quarry," Methos said, then glanced down to his hands. MacLeod followed his eyes down and took the hands in his own. MacLeod's skin was so warm compared to his own. He held out his glass, and MacLeod broke away for a second to fill it up again. He drank half of it before continuing. "I hurt--for so long. It was all that I could remember. My body...kept healing itself. I don't remember wanting to die through it, but I must have. I really...I wanted to fight. To push them away, but I wasn't strong enough. I wasn't awake enough. They kept at me, over and over again. First it was the guards, and then the other slaves, and no one was there for me," Methos said and shuddered again. They had thrown the head of the field hand who had protected him for the first half of his captivity at him. It had been a fresh beheading--the man's blood had splattered him. The death itself hadn't bothered him; the man had been nothing to him except for another attacker, but he was tired of blood. His own and others'.

MacLeod kissed his forehead. "How did you get out?" he asked. MacLeod didn't want him dwelling on the memories.

"I died," Methos said, closing his eyes. He had been terrified to do so--Lucullus promised to have his head cut off and sent back to him if he ever tried faking his death to end the enslavement. But the last night of his captivity, the slaves had become too violent. He tried fighting his way free of the hands on his throat, crushing his larynx and starving his brain, but he couldn't do it. He died when even his pathetic pleas to let him live couldn't make it out in whispers.

MacLeod looked at him. Methos rubbed his face, once, and took a deep breath. He met MacLeod's eyes. "My watcher saved me," he said simply.

"What?" MacLeod demanded.

"He was young. He fell in love with me while working for Lucullus, had himself transferred to the quarry when Lucullus banished me. He was just a child. They hauled my body outside the guards' rooms to behead me, and he killed the three of them. I woke up with him standing over the bodies," Methos said. He opened his mouth, wondering how much MacLeod wanted to hear about the year he had spent with the boy. Marcus had ended it when he couldn't handle the duplicity any longer, and Methos hadn't been sad. He owed the boy for saving him, and Marcus' gentleness nursed him through the worst of the shakes. It didn't take that long to recover, though, not back then. Back then it was...if not expected, accepted. He'd lost. He'd forfeited his body as penalty. Not like now. He had suffered through too many penalties to rebound from them as lightly as he once had.

The memories drained him, but out loud they didn't seem that bad. The next part wouldn't be that much worse. He drained his glass and closed his eyes. The world was beginning to rotate around the sofa as his stomach rumbled, and MacLeod looked at him. "I took Canten into my body. He was thinking about that when I took his head. I felt the pleasure he got from me. Do you know what that feels like, MacLeod?"

"No," MacLeod whispered, and began working the knots out of Methos' belly with his fingers. Methos stretched out, shifting so that his back was against MacLeod's side. MacLeod moved back as well, turning so that his own back was against the sofa's arm. MacLeod guided him back so he could lay back against MacLeod's reclined belly. The hands moved over his belly again, calming the queasiness with just his touch. Methos' breathing went back to normal, and the world stopped its spinning.

"That's all you have to say? No?" Methos demanded. Why was he looking for another fight? He wanted to apologize for his words, but found he couldn't.

"You know I love you," MacLeod whispered. "What else do I have to say?"

Methos should have known that MacLeod was a master at avoiding fights as well. He sighed, feeling his anger diffuse before he really wanted it to. "Methos, that must have hurt?" Methos asked, feeling a glass press against his lips. Without opening his eyes, he parted his lips and let MacLeod pour in exactly enough for him to swallow easily. He felt safe in the darkness.

"Methos, that must have hurt," MacLeod repeated, dutifully. "Anything else you'd like me to say?"

He opened his eyes and saw the half-smile on Mac's face. He tried to control his thoughts; the moment was gone and Methos couldn't recapture it. "I'd really like to suck your cock, Methos?" he asked instead.

"Don't push your luck," MacLeod whispered. Methos could hear the snort in his voice and the laughter in his chest.

"So, you don't?" Methos asked. He sighed and stretched out that much more against MacLeod.

"I didn't say that," Mac said and moved his hands down lower so that one hand gathered Methos' cock up and the other held his testicles. Methos groaned, throwing his head back. He needed more than MacLeod's hands.

"Up for a second," MacLeod said, as if reading his mind. Methos sat up, and MacLeod pulled free from him. Methos ran his hand along the inner thigh MacLeod presented to him.

Methos pulled off the hair tie and ran his fingers through MacLeod's hair. It was always so clean, so fresh. The back of MacLeod's neck was so tight. And wet. And the heat was incredible, considering how cold he had been. But he was gentle--always so gentle. Methos didn't want to be kissed and cradled, he wanted--

Pain.

The thought made him almost pull back. Mac noticed the change and stopped what he was doing. "Too soon?" he asked, guessing wrong.

He suddenly wanted to grab MacLeod's ears and force himself further down and punish him for not giving him what he wanted. To hurt Mac exactly the same way he wanted to be hurt. He wanted to be so far down MacLeod's throat that Mac's body would thrash in its starvation for oxygen.

Methos looked away, feeling corrupted, and felt more dirty in covering it up. He faked a yawn. "I'm tired. Let's just go to bed."

MacLeod stared at him, still on his knees, and then nodded. Methos sighed and crawled into bed naked. MacLeod joined him a second later. He curled up and forsook his pillow for MacLeod's arm as sleep found him immediately. For once he couldn't remember his dreams.

*****

MacLeod watched him carefully over breakfast. Methos nursed his coffee and ignored the tightness of MacLeod's eyebrows until he finished the last of the buttered part of his toast. He put down the crust and stared back. "What?" he asked, finally.

MacLeod looked a little embarrassed to be caught in such a blatant stare. "You look better," he finally said and went back to his own mug.

Methos heard a 'but' in that. He waited for it. "When are you planning to start practicing again?" MacLeod asked, still watching his coffee mug.

"What?" Methos asked. The panic came up again, as bitter as heartburn in the back of his throat.

"Your body's taken a beating, even if you have healed from most of it. Your muscles have shrunk. Methos, I don't think you'd be in any condition to take a challenge if you had to fight right now."

"MacLeod, don't," Methos said quietly. Dangerously. He didn't want to hear this. More panic that he had been so good at chasing away almost found him, and Methos pushed back from the table. MacLeod moved too quickly for Methos to avoid him, and the Scot pinned him to the wall. It felt so *right* to be held like that. Familiar...safe. He arched his neck back, trying to offer his throat to MacLeod, before realizing exactly what he was doing.

The need to be under him broke when MacLeod spoke for the first time. "Methos, please," MacLeod said. "You know I love you. You know I'd do anything for you. I want you better, and this isn't healthy. Please, Methos. For me."

"What do you want?" Methos asked finally. MacLeod wasn't going to let him go unless he agreed to this.

"Come run with me."

Methos sighed. A run wouldn't kill him. He nodded.

MacLeod face relaxed.

*****

Running helped. Methos ran until his heart felt like it was going to explode and his legs collapse. The ache helped fill that need to hurt himself. MacLeod finally had to grab his arm. Methos twisted around, ready to fight, and suddenly saw how sweaty MacLeod's armless sweatshirt was. He looked down and realized he was in much worse shape. He had a blister on his left foot, and he could feel the blood between his toes. It took a moment to heal, and he leaned against MacLeod while it did. He finally caught his breath, and they walked back to the car. He watched MacLeod watching him, but neither of them said anything.

Halfway through the night MacLeod touched his arm. He woke and opened his eyes, startled by how calmly he took Mac waking him up. MacLeod rocked back on one elbow. He had thrown the covers off, and Methos' eyes went to Mac's tattoo. He reached out and slowly traced out the M with his fingertips. He looked up. "Mine," he said, quietly.

MacLeod nodded. "Yours," he agreed.

"I'm not..." he touched his head, "myself right now."

Mac just nodded.

"I can't help myself. I want..." he almost said it, but he waited too long, and MacLeod tried to help by prompting him.

"Methos?" Mac asked.

It only made it worse. His eyes narrowed, and the anger came back. He was a fool to think MacLeod would understand this.

Methos moved over Mac, instead, trying to make up for his lack of words. He knew this was too upsetting for MacLeod and tried to give comfort, despite his own screaming thoughts. MacLeod needed to know that everything was all right, even though it was a lie. He kissed Mac's jaw and neck, sucking at the skin, hard enough to break the blood vessels. The bright red mark slowly faded back into MacLeod's bronze skin. Methos moved back, sucking harder, longer. MacLeod lifted his chin and let him feed. Methos felt him wince once as the suction became too strong, but he took it. When Methos moved back again, the mark was an angry purple.

It took longer, but it faded, as well. Methos touched the unblemished flesh, and the uselessness of the act fed his anger. There was no point to it. He could hurt MacLeod, and Mac would accept it as his duty, but asking MacLeod to put his hands around Methos' throat...he didn't want to think about it. He bit down hard on Mac's shoulder, instead, and wanted to laugh as MacLeod pushed him away, crying out in pain, and his hand clamped down on the bite.

Methos pulled Mac's hand away, wanting to see the blood run. "Methos, what the--"

Methos just looked at him, and Mac stopped talking. The blood stopped, slowly, and the skin healed. Methos touched the skin again to coat his finger in blood. He tasted it, then saw the way Mac stared at him. The guilt was sudden and flaring.

"Methos?" MacLeod asked. "You can't hurt me."

Methos reached out and touched his bloody fingers to Mac's tattoo. His throat tightened with the words he wanted to say, but couldn't.

Mac ignored his silence. "That's not going anywhere. That's a part of me," he said, gently.

Methos started with the only thing he knew for sure. "I...love you," he whispered. It didn't sound so bad out loud; maybe the other part wouldn't, either. He was naked, exposed, and completely vulnerable.

"I know," MacLeod said. "What is it?"

"I'd like to fuck you," he said, instead of what he really wanted. Maybe if he had MacLeod around him, accepting him, it would make the other need go away. He moved his jaw, hopefully.

MacLeod kissed him and kept his tongue soft as it worked over his lips. Methos opened his mouth, letting his tongue meet Mac's. He could taste Mac's breath on his lips, and moved closer so that their mouths met.

Mac didn't mind having his tongue forced back into his mouth. Methos wasn't as gentle as he should have been, and he used Mac's mouth like he intended to use Mac's body. MacLeod accepted that and touched the tongue in his mouth with gentle caresses.

Methos pulled away first. Breathing hurt the lining of his throat, and swallowing with a dry mouth only made it worse. MacLeod went back on both elbows for a second before opening his legs for Methos.

Methos again had the urge to hurt this offering to him, to give it what he wanted, but he was able to control it. It amazed him that he was able to open the bedside table drawer for the oil without throwing the damn thing across the room. MacLeod smiled indulgently at his impatience and helped him take the lid off the small vial.

Methos squeezed his eyes shut as MacLeod poured a small amount of oil onto his palm and worked it over Methos' flesh. Methos shuddered, unable to help the sounds he made. His jaw went slack, and all he could do was remember to breathe. He started to sweat, and the small hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

"Methos, please. Come here," MacLeod whispered.

Methos kept his eyes closed as MacLeod stopped moving his hand and manipulated his body to the right position. "Now, Methos," he whispered.

Methos didn't know how much more of this he could take. He moved forward in his own darkness, feeling MacLeod open to him. He threw his head back; he was barely halfway inside, and it almost made him lose control.

MacLeod's dry, warm hand touched his throat and cupped his jaw. "Relax, Methos."

Methos moved his jaw, shuddering at the touch of MacLeod's hand against his neck, but it was too fleeting. Then it moved off and touched his cheek, and the sudden flare of anger found him again, but he could shut off that part of his mind. Being inside MacLeod was better than having MacLeod's mouth or hand over him. He opened his eyes and saw the concern in Mac's face. Mac's eyes were so open, so trusting. It helped ground him in sensation. He took a deep breath, and the painful need slowly dissolved back into his body.

"Methos, kiss me, please," MacLeod whispered.

Methos rubbed his nose against MacLeod's for a moment before kissing MacLeod's full lips. He shifted forward and entered MacLeod completely. MacLeod squeezed against him, and Methos couldn't help his groan. They kissed, and Methos crushed Mac's lips with his. He bit down, tasting MacLeod's blood. Mac couldn't control his shudder at the pain, and Methos felt it against his cock.

He felt another shudder pass through his own body and had to pull back. He suddenly wanted to hurt Mac, worse, harder, make him bleed more, just to feel the blood run down his chin. He almost pulled away, but MacLeod wouldn't let him.

It angered him to be confined. The moment broke as MacLeod whispered to him, "Methos, I love you." Mac lay back down, passive under Methos' anger. MacLeod didn't understand it, but he didn't question it.

It didn't kill any of the fury building inside of him. Methos kissed MacLeod's offered throat, but wanted to bite down hard enough to make him bleed. "Methos...fuck me, please," MacLeod whispered, obviously misreading the emotion on Methos' face. "I'm begging you."

Methos pressed his forehead into Mac's collarbone and could barely withdraw more than an inch before thrusting inside again. He felt Mac jerk underneath him. "Deeper, Methos, harder."

He gritted his teeth, tensing. It was hard work, moving inside MacLeod. Mac kept his body tight, so Methos had to work through the muscles clenching against him. Mac was so warm against him, so accepting. Methos groaned, trying to fight Mac's arms as they came up to hold him and help him.

Methos moved Mac's hands off his hips to around his throat, careful not to thrust so hard that he would slip out, and for a second MacLeod's hands tightened against him. Methos squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the rush directly in his cock. He threw his head back and opened his mouth, but couldn't express his need vocally.

And then Mac moved his hands back to Methos' ass. He tried to whine in protest, but MacLeod trapped him against his body. He suddenly fought to break free, knowing what MacLeod wanted to do, but MacLeod's finger slid inside him and found the right spot.

It was over too soon. He wanted it to last longer, to feel this connection help him with his demons. It wasn't enough for him. "Fuck," he howled, furious at himself and at MacLeod, and then started sobbing as the pleasure drained out of him, leaving him only with the fury.

He came back to awareness with the cold, sticky semen between his belly and MacLeod's. It disgusted him, and he tried to pull back away from the contact, but MacLeod's hands still held onto his hips.

He took extra precautions to make sure he didn't wake MacLeod up as he left the bed. He took the time to wash off the dried cum on his belly and then rejected the soft, worn pair of jeans he'd worn during the day. All of his clothes were still too loose, but the black jeans fit him the best. He moved quickly and silently, rejecting all the sweaters or shirts he had, but then went to Mac's closet and stole the red silk. It would be too big on him, but he didn't care.

The smell of MacLeod on it would help get him through the next part.

He left his sword behind and didn't take his jacket. He stopped for a moment at the foot of the stairs and looked at MacLeod sleeping on the raised bed, but shook his head and left.

The music from the club made the sidewalk vibrate as he walked up from where he parked. His body shook, and it wasn't just from how cold he was with just the thin silk against him. The softness seemed to trap the cold and keep it next to his skin.

He paid the ridiculous cover charge and ordered a beer. The waiter stared at him, hot and sweaty in his leather pants, but Methos wouldn't glance at him twice.

The rest was just like trolling. He leaned back in the chair, exposing himself to the crowd. The near panic was back again, but he squashed it. He needed that feeling of helplessness.

The bar wasn't that crowded. There were a few obviously hungry men at the bar, looking for the same thing he was, and they made themselves as appealing as possible for the crowd. The dance floor was half-filled with bodies writhing against bodies, but he skipped over them with the same disinterest. He loved the smell of desperation in the air. It suited him.

The beer arrived, but as he reached for his wallet to pay, a bald man in a leather jacket dropped a twenty on the waiter's tray. "Get lost," he said, staring at Methos and not at the boy.

They were left alone. The music inside the club made the beer in the bottle vibrate. Methos accepted the bottle with a smiled thanks and then downed half of it.

"You haven't been here before," the man stated, sitting down without being invited. Methos liked that.

"You have," Methos said, narrowing his eyes. The man was at that age that was impossible to pin down exactly, but he was guessing no more than thirty-five. He liked the way his black goatee looked on his otherwise too-white face, and his body was very well maintained. There was nothing gaudy about his nature, nothing forced. He wore simple jeans and a white T-shirt and that bomber jacket. Nothing at all to remind him of MacLeod. He took another drink.

He would do nicely. He smiled and leaned further back in the chair. The man's eyes moved down his body, assessing him. "What do you want?"

"Another beer, to start," Methos said, putting down the empty.

It was the man's turn to narrow his eyes. He hadn't asked for a selection from the bar. Methos parted his legs wider and rested his hand on his inner thigh. Now that he had come this far, he needed a bit more courage than he already possessed.

The man nodded and disappeared for a moment. Methos wasn't approached by anyone while his pick-up was gone; he had already been marked as someone else's property. That thought made him smile.

The man returned with the beer. He drank that one just as quickly, trying to get the immediate buzz from the alcohol. It worked. He put down the bottle and looked back up at the man.

His rough fingers ran down Methos' cheek. Methos took it, staring at the calluses and wondering what he did for a living. Not that it mattered. He didn't want to know. He didn't want to know who this man was or what his name was. He needed the physical body, nothing more.

"What do you want?" he asked again, letting Methos study his hand.

Methos raised it to his throat, pressing the strong thumb against his pulse. The man nodded and then twisted his hand away, closing over Methos'. He stood up, yanking Methos to his feet, pulling him close.

"You play a dangerous game," the man whispered in his ear, running his hand down his throat. It was a slow, rhythmic motion. "How long has it been?"

Methos swallowed with difficulty and tried to stretch his neck out that little bit more for him. "A month," he lied. There were no bruises to say it had been any more recent.

"Am I your reward, or your punishment?" the man asked, squeezing slightly.

Methos opened his eyes. "Does it matter?" he asked.

"Not in the least." The hand didn't relax, and Methos felt the blood start to rush in his ears. He pressed his cock against the man's hips, letting him feel how much he needed it, and for a long minute they froze, neither wanting to break away.

But the song died down to its last caterwaul, and the moment of silence it took for the next song to start shattered the moment. Methos pulled away. Outside seemed colder after sweating so hard in the bar. "Your place."

Methos shook his head. He didn't want to contaminate his apartment with these emotions. The man noticed him shivering and stripped off his jacket, and Methos noticed he didn't offer his place. The man's body-heat settled over him and warmed the silk, and Methos shivered harder because of it.

The alley was dark enough. Methos wasn't asking for anything long term. It stunk of sour urine and rotting garbage, but he didn't care. It matched the mood he was in. He knelt down on the edge of an oily puddle with the beginnings of ice-crystals forming on the edge and undid the jeans in front of him.

The heavy hands with their dry skin settled over his throat. He bit his lip, stretching his neck out more vulnerably. The first bit of tension tightened the fingers against his throat as he took the man's cock out.

He tried to squash the thoughts that MacLeod was longer. He didn't want any remembrances of who waited for him in the barge. The cock was thick enough, though, and he parted his lips to accept the half-hardness and felt it grow against his tongue. He mirrored the gentle insistence of the fingers over his throat. This was just the preliminary stage, but already the man tightened and released rhythmically. Breathe in--constriction, breathe out--release. Methos closed his eyes and took the man's cock deeper down his throat. He had to sit up to work it all the way down his throat. The fingers dug deeper into his throat, causing the familiar tightening in his lungs and the dull ache behind his eyes. He touched his cock through his jeans, letting himself feel the painful erection pressing hard against his too-tight jeans.

The fingers tightened painfully. Methos snapped his head up to meet the guy's face, and got a simple shake of the head. He nodded and swallowed him a quarter inch more. He couldn't move much with the big hands holding his throat, but the man didn't seem to care.

Then he felt it, the other. The panic jolted him, and he tried to stand up, but the fingers dug in harder and he saw the black circles closing over his vision. With the cock down his throat he couldn't speak past grunts, but the sounds were ignored.

He prayed it would be anyone else but MacLeod. Anybody. He didn't care about the humiliation of being caught choking on the cock of a stranger. He could live with that for as long as it took to take his unprotected head. If it was MacLeod, he would have preferred the sword. The more he fought to get out from under the man, the more the man held him down, thinking it was more of his fantasy.

Methos felt the man's hands tighten harder, and he was going to pass out. The man didn't hear MacLeod approach--Mac gave no warning--and Methos couldn't move from the lack of oxygen. MacLeod barreled into him, knocking the hands off Methos' throat. Methos sunk down to his hands, gasping for air, and almost didn't see Mac pull his sword.

"Mac!" he croaked, holding a hand to his throat. His body healed, and he took a full deep breath. "MacLeod, stop it," he said, pushing to his feet.

MacLeod wasn't looking at him. Anger darkened his face, and he almost didn't see Methos stand up between them. MacLeod had backed the man up against the wall and was holding him there at sword point. The man Methos had picked up was speechless, and Methos pulled MacLeod's arm back.

"He wasn't hurting me," Methos snapped. He took off the jacket and passed it back to the man. "Get out of here," he said. The slight buzz from the two beers vanished, and it left Methos just feeling tired.

The man grabbed the leather jacket and ran once Methos was between him and the sword. MacLeod let him go, and Methos took in another deep breath. "Can we just go home?" he asked.

MacLeod looked at him, but Methos couldn't read his face. He shivered, hugging his body, and realized how stupid he had been to leave without his jacket or his sword. He put his hand on Mac's arm.

MacLeod shrugged it off and walked away from him.

Methos followed a moment later. He got into the other side of the car. His black jeans didn't show the filthy water in which he had knelt down. Methos opened his mouth to speak, but he didn't know what to say. He kept up the awkward silence.

The pedestrian crossing had just begun to flash, but MacLeod slowed down so that by the time he reached the light it had turned yellow. "What do you want to talk about first?" MacLeod asked, not looking at him.

"I don't," Methos said, suddenly wishing it had just been a headhunter who'd found him.

"He had his hands around your throat, Methos. His dick was in your mouth."

"Which one upsets you more, MacLeod?" Methos demanded.

MacLeod turned to him. "Should I even ask you what you were doing? Why you were doing it?"

Methos opened the door and got out. MacLeod tried to grab him, but he slammed the door shut. The light changed as Mac was scrambling for his seatbelt. The car behind him honked as Methos ran across the turning lane and onto the sidewalk. The car honked louder, and the truck behind it blew its horn. MacLeod stared at him as he drove away; Methos watched him go.

Methos walked until he couldn't control his deep muscle shakes. He could have spent the night at the hotel, but the longer he stayed away the harder the needed conversation would be.

He crossed the gang-plank, feeling his entire body shaking. He felt MacLeod, but the lights were off, and there were no other signs of life. He unlocked the door. The heat in the barge prickled his skin as he stepped down the stairs. He was too cold to properly register MacLeod's presence until Mac blindsided him and threw him to the floor.

"Is this what gets you off?" MacLeod demanded, holding his wrists over his head.

"Get off me, MacLeod," Methos hissed. He didn't try to fight. MacLeod weighed more than he did, and he was too tired for this.

"My mistake," MacLeod snapped and then gathered up both Methos' wrists with one hand and placed the other one over his throat.

"Get off me," Methos hissed, not letting his panic rise. It was MacLeod, his lover. This was a man who would never hurt him. But the hand tightened.

"Or get you off? Isn't that what I'm doing? Is this what you couldn't tell me, Methos? Is this what you wanted?"

Methos started to black out again. He yanked one of his wrists free and pushed MacLeod back as hard as he could, which wasn't much.

MacLeod cursed and got off him, leaving him flat on his back.

Methos touched his neck, hacking like a drowning cat, and sat up, rubbing the bruises as they disappeared off his skin. "Did you enjoy that?" he asked, bitterly.

"Why, Methos?" MacLeod asked from the couch. His hands, cradling his head, muffled his voice, and Methos stood up slowly on wobbling legs.

"I don't know," Methos said. He sat down next to MacLeod and held the man's body to his. He didn't know why suddenly he was the one giving comfort, but for once it was MacLeod's body shaking, not his.

MacLeod moved against him, hugging Methos' chest as if he was clinging to a rock. Methos patted his hair and ran his fingers through the curls. "Tell me," Mac whispered.

Methos took a deep breath. "I feel safe with you," he said, smoothing MacLeod's hair down. He just wanted MacLeod to understand. He tried a different way. He touched his throat with his free hand, and then moved away from MacLeod so that he sat without coming in contact with the man.

"She wrapped a belt around my neck while she was fucking me, MacLeod," he said, as bluntly as he could.

MacLeod's looked at him, and Methos saw his pain. "I didn't have any choice. I tried fighting it...I tried not respond to her...but..." he faltered. He wasn't looking at MacLeod, and he started as a heavy hand came down between his shoulder blades. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the gentle rubbing. He sighed, the touch making his words easier. "I responded to her."

MacLeod's hand didn't stop the gentle massage. "I hated it, but it felt good," Methos whispered. "God, it felt good. Like I--" Like he'd do it over again just to feel it. He shook his head. No way in hell he would, "I wanted to...I want you..."

MacLeod froze for a moment. "Methos--"

"I don't want her in me anymore," Methos said, hollowly. "I want you instead. I want to feel your hands--I want to feel your body. Just this once, I'm begging you. Let me feel how much you love me."

Methos dared to look up. MacLeod's face was deadly pale, and without saying a word, he stood up and left.

Methos threw himself back on the couch and closed his eyes. He'd totally blown it, he knew that, but he was too tired to leave the barge. He went to the bed and stripped down, leaving his clothes where they landed, and curled up on his half. If he didn't look behind him, and ignored the aching void in his mind, he could pretend that MacLeod was with him.

MacLeod didn't return for most of the night. The warning woke Methos out of his half-slumber, and he half sat up in bed in the pre-dawn light. The key turned, and Methos waited for MacLeod to come to the bed before lying back down. MacLeod hesitated for a second and then came to his side of the bed. He sat down, not looking at him.

"I do this, and it will be the last and only time, right?" MacLeod asked. His voice was gravel, like it always was when MacLeod was deeply upset.

Methos nodded, not knowing exactly how he could keep that promise. He knew it wasn't something he wanted, it wasn't a part of himself, and he hoped he just had to exorcise it to get it out of his system.

MacLeod stripped off his clothing, carefully folding it up and entering the bed from Methos' side. Methos wished MacLeod wasn't acting like he was going to his own beheading, but he was so desperate he didn't say anything.

"What's the best way to..." MacLeod asked. His voice was emotionless.

"Like this," Methos said. He moved closer to the centre of the bed and lay back. MacLeod moved over him, and Methos had never seen him so hesitant. He sighed, spreading his legs for his lover.

MacLeod reached the drawer and took out the lubrication. Methos moved up and kissed MacLeod's shoulder, but Mac pressed his fingers against Methos' lips. "Not tonight," he said. "Just let me do this."

Methos scanned his body and saw that his penis was still soft. "Do you need any help?" he asked, looking into the dark brown eyes.

"No," MacLeod said shortly. "Lie down."

Methos lay down again. MacLeod poured oil onto his palm and worked it in with his fingers before touching himself for the first time. Mac's eyes squeezed shut, and his face was set in a tense half-grimace as he worked the oil over himself. Methos' own erection lay against his belly, but he didn't think to touch it as he watched his lover pleasure himself out of pure will. There was nothing in the quick motion of MacLeod's hands that suggested he was even partially enjoying the contact. Sweat began to gather on MacLeod's forehead as he finally opened his eyes.

MacLeod opened him up slowly with his fingers, gently working the muscles so that they wouldn't clench against him. Methos closed his eyes as the rough fingers moved inside him, and his heart beat faster, excited at being so close to what he wanted. At last they were ready, and Methos groaned as Mac's cock pushed inside him. Inch by inch it filled him up until MacLeod's thighs pressed against him, then he slowly withdrew a couple inches to adjust to a better position.

"MacLeod--" Methos began, not knowing if speaking would help MacLeod accept this any more easily.

It didn't. "Shh," MacLeod hissed at him and then put his hands around Methos' throat. They just lay there for a minute, rough calluses made soft by the recent application of oil. The heat from his hands touched Methos' skin and made the small of Methos' back prickle.

Methos closed his eyes, trusting MacLeod to do the rest. He could feel his heartbeat quicken even more in his chest, but forced himself to relax and just breathe. The panic was nothing new, but his rational mind would never let him forget that MacLeod loved him.

MacLeod pulled back again, but the hands remained limp against his throat. He was about to whine in protest when the hands tightened ever so slightly.

Methos smiled. He mouthed the words, 'I love you' once and then let himself ride the constriction.

It took forever for MacLeod to squeeze hard enough for Methos to start feeling the buzz from closed off blood vessels. He tried offering MacLeod more of his throat to use, but Mac wouldn't relax his fingers enough to take advantage of it. Gradually the dominating sensation shifted from MacLeod's cock filling him to MacLeod's hands working over his throat. The warmth from Mac's hands spread all over his body as it became more difficult to breathe. He squeezed his eyes tighter and moved his hands down over his belly. MacLeod wasn't close; he was. Through the blood rush in his ears Methos could hear the man's controlled breathing.

"I love you," he said as best he could. He was so close. Blood vessels were starting to break in his eyelids, and the starbursts of colour mesmerized him. His body became a single nerve ending, and when Mac found his prostate, he couldn't help writhing against the bed. His entire body was pure sensation, and the tighter MacLeod squeezed, the more intense the feeling was. He sunk lower into the lack of oxygen and didn't have the strength to even try to breathe in any more, his lungs had given up. His hand found his erection and he touched it once before starting to come. Mac must ahve felt him tighten against him, and his hands became iron vices, squeezing the breath from him. Methos felt his body convulse as the starbursts of colour became fireworks behind his eyes, and he was gone, coming and dying at the same time.

"I'm sorry," MacLeod whispered, just before Methos died, but there was nothing to forgive.

Methos came back gasping. His throat was raw, and his voice box still felt like it hadn't completely healed before his heart started to pump again. He lay still, relaxed enough with MacLeod sitting next to him that he could take a few extra moments to just absorb the afterglow from his sluggish blood.

"Did you enjoy that?" MacLeod asked, giving him a fair bit of time to recover.

"No," Methos said. His voice was scratchy, and he coughed, sitting up. "But I needed it."

MacLeod was about to pull away from Methos and his minute kisses on the back of his bare shoulders, but then tightened his jaw and accepted it. The blood vessel on Methos' temple throbbed in time with MacLeod's heartbeat.

"Is that all you have to say?" MacLeod demanded.

"Thank you," Methos said. His voice was stronger now. He pulled his legs up and sat down next to Mac, staring at the same patch of wall.

MacLeod wouldn't look at him, but it was obvious he had withdrawn from Methos before spending himself. Any other day he would have looked ridiculous sitting there in all his brooding glory with the angry red erection still pressing against his belly. Methos moved over his lap, straddling it with his thighs.

They kissed again, Methos trying to ask forgiveness without forming the words. MacLeod's erection pressed against Methos' ass. It was still slick enough, and it didn't take much effort to realign himself to MacLeod's body. "Lie back down," he whispered.

"Methos..." MacLeod began, but Methos silenced him with a kiss.

"Not right now, MacLeod, after."

MacLeod lay back down, not fighting him. Mac wouldn't look at him, though, even after Methos had lowered himself down on MacLeod's length. It didn't take long for his body to adapt to the invader, and Methos began slowly rocking back and forth. He pressed his palms against the naked chest under him, and then sighed, splaying his fingers. He carefully lowered himself against MacLeod, keeping tight enough to make it feel good, but not enough to hurt. MacLeod still wouldn't look at him.

"Look at me," Methos said suddenly and stopped moving against him.

MacLeod refused. Methos closed his eyes for a second and then kissed MacLeod's chest. "Look at me," he repeated, softly.

MacLeod wouldn't. Methos lifted his chin, turning Mac's face to him. "Tell me you love me," he whispered.

"You know I do," MacLeod said, speaking for the first time.

"Tell me again."

"I love you," Mac said, and the words were painful.

Methos lifted his body up and slowly lowered himself down to MacLeod's body. "Say it again," he said.

"I love you," MacLeod said tensing as Methos took Mac's hands and guided them to him. But this time, Methos held them to his hips and then let go, letting MacLeod take over. He moved his own hand down Mac's belly so that his palm covered the M on Mac's hipbone.

"Are we okay with this?" Methos asked, surprised he could be so articulate with MacLeod's cock inside him, but he felt oddly detached from it.

MacLeod looked at him. The hands on his hips tightened, pushing more inside him. "Are you?"

Methos closed his eyes for a second, shuddering against him. "I love you."

Mac said nothing as the first tremor passed through his body. Methos let MacLeod press him against his body as he came and then held him there long after it was finally over. "Promise me," MacLeod finally whispered in his ear as he slowly came back from the orgasm-induced exhaustion.

"I promise, MacLeod," Methos said, not making MacLeod form the words. Never again. He meant it, figuring he owed the man at least that.

MacLeod waved off his words, kissing his forehead. "Promise me you won't go to another stranger for what I should be giving you," MacLeod said, wrapping his arms around Methos.

Methos froze, not sure if he'd heard MacLeod right. He lifted his head so that they were almost nose to nose. "What?" he asked.

"I love you. All of you. I don't want to see you going to another man because you think I can't handle parts of you."

"MacLeod...you can't handle parts of me," Methos said, carefully. He wasn't going to turn this into meaningless words of devotion.

"But I am going to try. And you are going to teach me," MacLeod whispered, rubbing his nose against Methos' nose.

"Are you sure?" Methos asked, cautiously.

MacLeod just kissed him again.


End file.
